


Second Thoughts: A Fan Sequel to First Times

by gymwrites



Category: Gymnastics RPF
Genre: F/F, raistafina
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2018-08-29 21:00:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 64,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8505196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gymwrites/pseuds/gymwrites
Summary: A continuation of the definitive Raistafina fic, First Times, in Rio.





	1. Prologue: Business

**Author's Note:**

> Full credit to Jen for the backstory to and inspiration for this sequel. I take Asks over at gymwrites.tumblr.com too :)

The second thought that crosses Aliya Mustafina’s mind after being roused from her not-so-deep sleep — the first being ‘ _chyort…’ (damn…)_ — is to give up on the endeavor entirely. The incessant humming of the plane engine ensured that not once in the last 15 hours since departing Moscow had she gotten anything resembling ‘rest’. She knew she would need plenty of that if she was going to survive the next few weeks.

Another two hours pass.

Aliya shifts uncomfortably in her spacious seat, feeling the plane begin its descent. The pressurized air has taken on a cramped stuffiness, stoking the restlessness within her. She slips a well-worn copy of _Anna Karenina_ back into her backpack. Cliché, she knows. Nothing beats the prosaism of a Russian-jacket-wearing Russian gymnast reading a quintessential Russian classic. After all these years, it’s still her favorite book for the road. She smiles to herself. Who  _doesn’t_  enjoy being immersed in the tragic life of a woman struggling to break free of society’s strictures?

Peering out the tiny oval window, Aliya takes in the sea of bright lights, the brightest cluster of them dotting the contours of Rio de Janeiro’s beautiful coastline. Her heart rate picks up a little .

_This is it._

A crisp, female voice crackles throughout the plane. “Cabin crew, please prepare for landing.”

Turning to her right, Aliya looks over to where Seda sits, slumped over like a sack of potatoes. Her head tilts back against a Pikachu-emblazoned travel pillow, mouth hanging slightly open. Slow, deep breaths escape every so often. Totally passed out. 

A grin tugs at Aliya's lips. She reaches over to gently pull up the woolly blanket slipping down Seda’s shoulders. The baby of the team stirs and mumbles something incoherent (“cookies?” Aliya hears), but remains about as conscious as a mummified Egyptian queen.

After stealthily snapping a photo of Sedate Seda she intends to post on Instagram later, Aliya sinks back into her seat. A sudden pensiveness comes over her. She stares absentmindedly past her own reflection in the window.

It’s been a whirlwind few days. Team Russia had been given the green light to compete in the Olympics just days before. Aliya remembers the torrent of mixed feelings that had swept over her after finding out they would be jetting off to South America after all. Angry, because much of the frenzied foreign media coverage of the high-level drug scandal seemed set on smearing the reputations of every Russian athlete, even the innocent ones; vindicated, because the girls had been killing themselves to train for these Games; pumped, because once again she would prove to all the doubters that injuries weren’t going to keep her from more Olympic glory; scared, because of what — and who — had happened four years ago in London…

Grimacing, Aliya forces her mind to back away from London. She didn’t want to go _there_. Luckily, the French accent-tinged English of a pleasant baritone snaps her out of her thoughts.

“Miss, can I get you anything before we land?” The chisel-faced Lufthansa flight attendant who has been surreptitiously flirting with Aliya since the plane took off is looking down at her, watchful eyes trained on her face. He’s holding some orange pieces of paper in his hand.

“No. I am good,” Aliya says curtly. She had caught little of what he had said, but it was enough, combined with the tone of his voice, to understand what he was asking.

He gives her a slight nod, but his feet stay rooted to the spot, as if waiting — or willing — for her to say more.

“Ah. Thank you. I am good.” Aliya feels a blush creep up her cheeks, realizing her first response had resembled a haughty marquesse telling a particularly useless manservant to please step off a cliff. She tries to ameliorate the situation by glancing up and flashing him a winning smile. He has been very attentive for the entirety of the flight, after all.

Chisel Face (he had introduced himself before, but Aliya hadn’t bothered to commit his name to memory) breaks into a pearly-teethed grin. “Did you finish your book?”

“My book?” Aliya is momentarily thrown. Then it dawns on her. He had noticed her burrowing into her novel. _And probably many other things too._ He’s not what you would call beautiful, but does have a certain slick charm about him. She’ll play along for now. “No, not finish. But I read, many times. Anna Karenina is… deep. Many people, many… meanings.” 

He nods distractedly, clearly not comprehending her words so much as drinking in the way her voice lilted over the English language, infusing each syllable with a commanding air. To Aliya, searching for the right English word was a taxing exercise. When she finally settled on one, but knew it didn’t quite convey the full force of her original meaning, her already dark eyes would cloud over with intense frustration. It seemed to have an effect on people.

Like now. That all-too-familiar blank look sweeping over the flight attendant's face. Aliya only just stops herself from rolling her eyes.  _Why do I even bother?_ The awkwardness thickens, and she quietly clears her throat.

Chisel Face shakes his head dazedly, recovering himself in time. He leans carefully over a groggy, but now conscious Seda, to hand Aliya some immigration forms. “We’ll be landing soon. You’ll need these,” he says, bestowing another simpering smile on her. 

Aliya thanks him, meeting his suspiciously rehearsed wink with outward indifference and an inward shiver of disgust. She silently rejoices when he continues, a little reluctantly, down the aisle to distribute forms to other passengers.

By now, Seda is fully alert. And shooting Aliya a smug-filled ‘I see what you did there’ look.

Aliya smacks Seda over the head.

“When we were flying over the Canary Islands, I thought you’d passed on into the afterlife. You didn’t even feel anything when the flight attendant shook you to wake you up for dinner.” As Aliya speaks, her fingers instinctively move to smooth out several escapee strands of hair matted against her diminutive teammate’s forehead.

“Which flight attendant? The one who was about to get down on one knee just then?” Seda pokes Aliya’s arm playfully, laughing at the scowl on her team captain's face. “The one you would have totally jumped if I wasn’t in the way?” She stops mid-tease, brow furrowed. “Wait. That’s so cool that we flew over the Canary… well, whatever. You were _so_ into him!”

Aliya raises a perfectly-shaped eyebrow. “You think I’m that easy? Please. He can get in line.” 

Seda struggles to think of a snappy retort. There is definitely a line — one populated by a string of smitten Russian celebrities, sons of oil barons, fellow Olympians, even an up-and-coming genius on the verge of discovering the cure for cancer… or something. Point taken. It takes a lot more than smart flight attendant attire, constant drink refills and over-practised winks to pique Aliya’s interest.  _A_ hellish _ly_ lot more.

“Here — we have to fill these in. I’ve got pens. We’re going to be in Riosoon!” Even the normally composed Aliya Mustafina can’t contain the waves of adrenaline coursing through her at the thought of another Olympics. She moves to hand Seda one of the orange forms, but not before another piece of paper with something scrawled on one side drops onto Seda’s open table tray.

Instinctively, Seda grabs the paper and brings it up to her eyes. Squinting in the dim light, she quickly scans it. Moments later, she lets out a noise between a high-pitched squeak and a gleeful guffaw. It’s as she expected: a carefully hand-written phone number complete with international code, an email address, and several social media handles, most on sites Aliya doesn’t even use. Then in capitals: _JACQUE MOREAU_. And underneath Chisel Face’s actual name, in script befitting of a Russian pre-schooler: Ты такая красивая.

Aliya calmly plucks the paper out of a giggling Seda’s hand, scrunches it up, and lets it drop to the floor of the plane.

She has business to get on with in Rio.


	2. Nothing

The second thought Aly Raisman has when a blood-curdling scream rips through the cool Rio night air is a remarkably calm one. That’s because the first was to instantly recognize whose it was — it had the unmistakable shrill of a hyperactive Simone who’s downed a tea with six sugars, done ten front flips and then proceeded to pommel horse the heck out of a cushion stool. You know, ’cause Simone.

She decides she can stay put for awhile longer before investigating. Judging by the shrieks of laughter now ringing out from the balcony above her, Simone  and Laurie aren’t in any kind of mortal danger. Aly shakes her head with a bemused smile. Where did they find all that extra high-voltage energy?

The American team captain resumes staring out over one of the many bridges that criss-cross the large manmade canal running through the leafy Olympic Village. The smile gradually slips off her features, and she quickly loses herself in thought again. The luxury to wallow alone has been increasingly harder to come by, what with Team USA spending almost every waking hour together in the lead up to competition.

The water below laps rhythmically up against the sides of the canal, making a soft, soothing soundtrack to think to. Overhead, the night sky slowly gives out more and more stars as Aly’s eyes adjust to the darkness. On either side of the bridge are tall apartment blocks filled with suites of world-class athletes from every corner of the globe. It’s not yet nine, but more than half the lights are already dimmed out. With the Opening Ceremony still a week away, the infamous athlete parties and bacchanal orgies wouldn’t start until well into the Games.

In bed with the bright blue Rio covers pulled snugly over her is exactly where Aly would be, but for the oppressive weight of the world she feels bearing down on her shoulders. It had gotten so bad, she needed a brisk walk to sort herself out.

It’s a pressure she’s not unfamiliar with.

Four years ago, the burden of leading her Fierce Five compatriots to victory was just as heavy, if not heavier. The two-per-country fiasco made it worse, at one point feeling like it was going to tear the team apart. Of course, the girls had self-censored so as not to let on to a drama-hungry press just how fragile everything really was. Aly would never forget how McKayla, Gabby, Kyla and especially Jordyn had pulled through for each other in the end. Including forming a kind of protective silence around her after discovering her… liaison... with the enemy.

This time, having Simone around made things a little easier. Not only does she create a colossal point buffer for the team, but the bubbly star has an uncanny way of making everyone — even the fearsome, whip-in-hand Martha Karolyi — do something unheard of: relax. Well, as much as you  _can_  relax when fighting tooth and nail to win at the quadrennial Olympic Hunger Games.

Somewhere in the far distance, the muffled pounding of a funk carioca beat starts up. It suddenly strikes Aly that she’s made it. Small shivers run down her spine. She’s here. In Rio. She had poured her whole mind, body and soul into making it to her second Olympics since losing the London all-around bronze to — 

Aly’s train of thought halts. Her throat tightens slightly. She fights against the urge to close her eyes, knowing full well whose perfectly angled face and dark liquid eyes will appear, imprinted behind her eyelids.

To the media and everyone who kept asking whether she had busted her ass to get to Rio for another shot at an Olympic all-around competition, she said yes. That it was a huge disappointment not to medal in 2012. (Left unsaid was that losing to  _her_  had made it somewhat bearable at the time). That she wasn't crazy to put her body through another cycle of back-breaking, soul-debilitating grind to get selected again to lead the fiercest women’s gymnastics team in the known universe. (This she had to convince herself of. Constantly. Especially when Mihai was having one of his bad days.) Of course, she also wanted to help cement Team USA’s dynastic reign over elite gymnastics with historic back-to-back Olympic team golds.

But the other, far stronger impetus behind her absolute determination to get to where she is remained undisclosed. Behind every repetition of every routine, every fall, every fresh piece of ripped skin and frustrated tear shed, was an overriding purpose she applied herself to with more dedication than she knew she was capable of.

_I need to see her again._

There were no delusions of recovering even a shred of what she had single-handedly obliterated in a moment of weakness, four years ago. But somehow, Aly wanted to make it up to her. To remedy the tugging regret that had dug deeper and deeper into her heart since  _that_  day.

To make things right.

 

* * *

 

_“Hello?” McKayla hopes to high heaven it’s the production company getting back to her about that weird music video they want to feature her in._

_“This Maroonee?”_

_“Yeah, this is McKayla speaking. Who’s this?”_

_“This Aliya.”_

_McKayla blinks, slowly putting two and two together —_ that name _, and the distinctly brusque Russian accent coming out of her phone. One she hasn’t heard since the strange and jarring conversation she had with a certain pouty gymnast one early London morning outside the hotel room she had shared with Aly._

_(Holy shit! Is that really her?)_

_“Aliya? As in Mustafina? Aliya Mustafina? How did you even get my number? What are… where are you? How…I mean this is… Hi.” McKayla realizes her word vomit won’t make any sense to the Russian on the other end of the line. It’s hardly comprehensible in English._

_Their less than lukewarm acquaintance explains her shock. Later, she would discover Aliya had gone to incredible lengths to get in touch - asking one of the Russian coaches to covertly track down a mutual friend of his and Artur Akopyan’s, to then make the awkward request for McKayla’s contact details. It had all been done under a thin guise of ‘international friendship’ .  But everyone involved in the elaborate mission, including Artur, knew something else was afoot. Aliya’s steely refusal to entertain questions, however, shut down any further probing from her coaches. They did what she told them to. No questions asked._

_It would have saved Aliya a lot of trouble had she just messaged McKayla online — but given the frosty history between the two, McKayla could understand, sort of, why the Russian had decided to take a more unconventional route. She’s not sure she would have replied to Aliya’s messages, to be honest._

_“Can talk with you? Fast. I must go, soon.”_

_A sense of urgency mixed with what sounds like desperation_ (but that can’t be right, this is Aliya Mustafina) _shakes McKayla to attention. The world champion vaulter nods numbly, then remembers Aliya can’t see her._ _“Sure. What’s up?”_

_“Aly…” The voice at the other end breaks a little, before composing itself. “It is two mesyats… month… she speak to me.”_

_McKayla is lost for words. So she just listens._

_“Call phone, and nothing. Email many times, and nothing. She become like nothing. Last she speak to me, she…” Aliya exhales uncomfortably and leaves the sentence hanging, but McKayla already knows._

_In between loud sobs and tears, Aly had told her everything. McKayla remembered the way Aly had wrenchingly described how broken and tired she was all the time. She hadn’t wanted to do what she did, but if she hadn’t done it, she would have gone insane. She needed to put herself back together again, before the constant hurt of never quite being whole ruined her._ _It was too late; she_ was _already ruined._

 _The American hesitates before answering. Where her loyalties lie are clear. The raw pain in Aliya’s voice , however, causes a pang of pity in her._ _“Aliya. I’m sorry. I don’t think Aly’s ready to talk to you yet,” she says cautiously._

_“She tell this, to you?”_

_“Well she kind of destroyed her phone because of you.” McKayla instantly regrets saying that so bluntly._

_“Sorry, I not understand. Again?”_

_Cursing silently, McKayla chooses her next words more carefully. “She thinks it’s best you both take a step back… stop…for now.”_

_“Best for me? For her?” A hint of anger seeps through the phone._

_McKayla feels guilty for some reason, even though she’s just the messenger. Were she in Aliya’s shoes, she would be furious as all hell too. Yes, she understood where Aly was coming from — nothing hurts more than being half a world away from your soulmate, if indeed that’s what they were. What made it worse was the secrecy; the uproar that would ensue if their relationship was ever leaked to the public. But if it were up to McKayla, she would have fought on. Fought harder. Found some way to make it work._

_Of course, she had said none of this when Aly was bawling her eyes out to her. It wasn’t the right time. For now, she had to stick by her teammate, no matter what._

_Someone barking orders in Russian in the background, and then what sounds like the patter of dozens of feet on gym mats, saves McKayla from having to respond further. She gives silent thanks to the gods._

_“Maroonee, I must go. You tell Aly call me? I…” Aliya trails off, as if trying to fight down the urge to say the next few words. But then, in a lowered voice: “I need her.”_

_McKayla is floored. This is Aliya Mustafina, whose reputation for unbending, dignified pride precedes her. Pleading with McKayla, a gymnast she barely knows and has lost no love on, to please talk some sense into her former team captain._

_“I will.” McKayla tries to inject as much reassurance into those two words as she can. It's terribly unconvincing._

_The line clicks and goes dead._

 

* * *

 

If anyone else had walked into the chaotic scene unfolding in the living room of Team USA’s Olympic suite, they would have panicked and immediately speed-dialed emergency services.

For Aly, it was just another night with the girls who had become her second family. Simone lay sprawled out on the floor, the back of her hand pressed dramatically to her forehead. Laurie hovered above her, frantically fanning her with a glossy copy of Teen Vogue.

Aly moves quickly into the centre of the room to stand over Simone, hands on hips, a stern look on her face. “Simone, this better be good," she warns, trying not to smile. "We have to go to bed soon — our first training is tomorrow morning, eight o'clock sharp. If Martha does one of her spot checks and catches us messing around this late she’s going to blame me. Like she always does!”

As Aly rattles through her well-practised mom act with the three-time World champion-turned human mat, Madison pokes her head curiously around the door. The demure bars specialist usually stays out of these legendary battles of the wills between Simone and Aly, but since landing in Rio earlier that day, her body had steadfastly refused to believe it needed sleep.

Simone doesn’t move a muscle.

“Grams!” Laurie says breathlessly. “You’ll  _never_  guess what just happened to Seamoney.” The youngest of the team chucks the magazine onto the couch and excitedly reaches inside her jacket pocket to pull out her phone. “Zac — ”

Simone suddenly jumps to her feet as if she’s been electrocuted by a dozen open electrical sockets, scaring the hell out of Aly. She claps a hand over Laurie’s mouth.  _“SHHHHHH. NO!”_

Laurie manages to struggle out from under Simone’s headlock. Laughing hysterically, she yells out to the entire room, and likely the next several rooms down the hallway, “— fuh-reaking Efron! He gave us a Twitter shoutout!” At the sound of his name, Simone collapses to the floor again with a shriek. She covers her face with both hands, deliriously repeating over and over again, “Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod…”

Aly checks her own phone and quickly scrolls through Twitter. Her mouth drops open. “Oh my god. Zac Efron just wished us all good luck. Simone! And he mentioned you specifically by name too!” This is, admittedly, kind of surreal. Even Madison is happily dancing her awkward airplane arms bop as she looks over Aly’s shoulder. Another high-pitch scream emanates from the quivering heap of champion lying in the middle of the floor.

“Guys? Is everything okay?” A sleepy Gabby walks in on the escalating commotion, hugging a huge pillow. The bewildered look on her face is that of someone caught between figuring out why her teammates have lost all sanity, or shrugging, because for them, this  _is_  sanity.

It’s going to be a long night.

 

* * *

 

“Come  _on_ , people!”

Laurie stands in the hallway decked in her Team USA tracksuit, hair still wet, impatiently tapping her foot against the freshly painted wall outside Team USA’s three-bedroom suite. She hears the sound of showers being turned on and off, closet doors banging, the noisy blowing of a hair dryer, Aly and Simone trading banter. Aly teasingly mentions she might invite ‘Zac’ to come visit Burlington and have dinner at the Michelin-star Italian eatery near her place once they’re done in Rio. Simone is apoplectic. Some things she can handle like a pro — the pressure of three-and-now-four-peating on the world stage, for instance. Others, like podium bees and the thought of her man wining and dining her charming two-time Olympian bestie? Not so much.

Normally, Laurie would be right there with Aly, egging Simone on. Zac seems more like a Jersey kind of guy anyway… But right now, the anxious Human Emoji is in no mood for Zac Efron, or jokes, or jokes about Zac Efron.

The instant Martha clapped her hands to signal the girls’ release from yet another torturous run-through of their routines — the last one before podium training — all Laurie had wanted to do was sprint straight to the cafeteria. Only until Aly had pointed out that today might be the day they run into Usain Bolt did Laurie begrudgingly agree to follow the rest of the team back to their rooms to clean up first. Sweaty, chalky and all-round gross selfies with one of her biggest idols are definitely not on Laurie’s to-do list. Besides, the ice baths out on the top deck of their apartment tower would be just the ticket to easing post-training pain…

… said no Olympic gymnast ever. 

 _Nothing_  eases the pain. Not really. Laurie no longer had arms or legs for limbs; these had been replaced by a rubbery, jello-like substance that punished her with jolts of pain with each tiny movement she made. She’d had a particularly awful time on bars today . That prickly feeling she always got on the back of her neck whenever she knew Martha was eying her routines, the same way a vulture eyes a dying baby antelope, made it ten times worse.

Only one thing was going to make her feel better. But if the girls keep her waiting any longer, she wasn’t going to get any of it.

“You guys!” she hollers through the door she’s been holding open for no one in particular these last few minutes. “That’s it. I’m going without you. Come find me fifty years later when y’all are ready to eat!” Laurie hears Aly yell something back, but it’s too muffled for her to catch because she’s already gunning for the elevator. Or maybe she did hear it, but that rule where they can’t go anywhere without being with at least one other person is, frankly, ridiculous.

There’s also  _nothing_  anyone can say to keep her away from the best grilled chicken she has ever tasted in her entire life.

 

* * *

 

The Olympian cafeteria looks as if it’s been hastily remodeled from an enormous military aircraft hangar into a grand and opulent food nirvana. Huge, fluorescent ceiling lights illuminate rows upon rows of tables and plastic-covered seats that spread out over an expansive dining hall the length of four Olympic swimming pools. Here, every taste and dietary requirement under the sun is catered to.

Laurie observes the flurry of activity that greets her at the entrance, in awe of it all as much as she was the first time: Super-human athletes from all over the world loading up on a disturbing amount of carbs, challenging each other to soda-water pong and stalking celebrity crushes from competitor nations.

As she power walks past the over-stocked yoghurt bar and a couple of German football players throwing bits of cottage pie at each other, Laurie gives herself a mental pinch . She's been doing that a lot lately. The team had already spent several days living in the Olympic Village, mingling with the best of the best, yet it all still seems like a fantastical daydream her mom back home will shake her out of. Any second now.

It’s Laurie’s exceedingly sore muscles who end up snapping her out of it. They remind her that she’s here for some serious food therapy. Refocused, and slightly worried she might not make it, Laurie picks up her pace.

Each day, the cafeteria served the same things at exactly the same time, and in the same locations throughout the dining hall. Several thousand ravenous Olympians would come through the doors like a hoard of locusts, the popular dishes disappearing faster than a fall ruins a beam final. In keeping with the Olympic spirit, meals were a cut throat free-for-all. Spotting her intended destination, Laurie starts running. She makes a beeline for one of the few buffet bars with the word ‘MEATS’ strung over the top in bright green capitals and in several different languages. It looks like the locusts have already come through…

She heaves a huge sigh of relief.

In a giant, mostly empty metal tray sit the last remnants of the frango no churrasco, a Brazilian staple Laurie had fallen in love with on her first day in Rio. There’s more than enough left for one famished Olympian, and just enough left for one famished Olympian with an unnerving obsession with grilled chicken. Sending up a silent prayer of thanks, Laurie grabs a plate from a stack nearby. She scoops up as much of the chunky, masterfully seasoned and charred bits of chicken as her plate can hold. And then some. Actually, she ends up scraping up every last bit that’s left. She tells herself she’s just saving some for the girls.

As an immensely satisfied Laurie starts moving towards the salad bar, she hears a loud outburst of dismay erupt from behind her, followed by a rapid-fire exchange in what sounds like Russian between two girls. One of them keeps punctuating the conversation with laughter at the other, whom Laurie senses is quite distraught. Curious, Laurie turns around and finds herself face to face with a frowning Seda Tutkhalyan, the tiny Russian all-arounder. Behind Seda stands Daria Spiridonova, the Russian bars specialist, jokingly giving Seda a hard time about something.

When the Russian gymnasts notice Laurie trying not to stare too obviously at them, their animated conversation drops off. Both stop to eyeball Laurie, then the conspicuously massive heap of chicken she’s holding.

Daria and Seda exchange a meaningful look that Laurie can’t quite decipher. They speak a few more unintelligible words to each other in lowered tones. Seda looks from Daria, to Laurie’s overloaded plate, then back at her teammate. The frown is gone, and she looks excited for some reason. Daria subtly puts a hand on Seda’s arm and starts to lead her away, but is stopped when Seda shakes her head. The American watches with growing interest as Seda gestures towards Laurie, then aims another flurry of Russian at Daria, this time more spirited. As Daria listens, her mouth opens slightly as if to protest, but thinks better of it. A look of disbelief spreads across her face. Finally, she shrugs and gives her teammate a mildly disapproving pout. Daria starts to walk away, presumably to find the rest of the Russian crew. She barely acknowledges Laurie, aside from the briefest of sideways glances. Then she’s gone.

A moment of indecision follows, during which Laurie registers the deer in headlights look on Seda’s soft, yet expressive features. Not one to be deterred by awkward encounters with competitor gymnasts, Laurie steps towards Seda and flashes a million-megawatt grin. They had never come across each other, either personally or in competition. Of course, they  _knew_  about each other — it was hard to be the up-and-coming babies of two of the biggest rival teams, and not watch closely each other’s rise to notoriety.

“Hey! It’s so nice to finally meet you! I’m Laurie.” Laurie extends her hand out towards Seda. The other girl eyes it curiously, not really knowing what to do with it. Eventually, she tentatively reaches our her own hand to grasp Laurie’s. Seda’s big brown eyes widen in surprise when Laurie squeezes it with a friendly ferocity. The Russian’s nervousness draws an even bigger smile from Laurie. “Laurie Hernandez. You’re Seda, right? From Team Russia?” Laurie deliberately leaves out Seda’s last name to avoid almost certainly butchering the pronunciation.

A look of panic flits across Seda’s face. Thankfully, it seems the Russian did manage to at least catch the Americanized sound of her own name. With a hesitant nod, Seda puts her right hand to her heart, over the ‘CH’ of the ‘POCCHA’ embellished on her jacket, as if she’s about to break out into the Russian national anthem. Lowering her eyes slightly, she repeats in a small, shy voice: “Seda.”

Laurie giggles at the solemnity of the introduction, but immediately mirrors Seda’s move, putting her hand over the American flag stitched into her own team jacket. “Laurie.”

There’s something about the diminutive girl Laurie instantly likes. It might have something to do with how Seda breaks the conventional moulds of a Russian gymnast —  she’s tiny, but a powerhouse who throws caution to the wind and goes for hugely difficult skills. Laurie also loves that Seda is a beamer, like herself. Her pre-routine murderface is solid. She’s a talented, unpredictable fireball of emotion, and that makes her extremely relatable. Unfortunately, the extent of Laurie’s Russian boils down to one word — “ _nyet!_ ”, said the way a Russian wrestler would when he’s had way too many vodkas and his mates are trying to drag him out the narrow doors of an underground bar.

As Laurie tries to figure out what to say next in this conversation that likely has in its entire vocabulary a possible three words — Seda, Laurie and  _nyet!_ — her keen eyes catch Seda sneaking longing glances at her plate of as-yet untouched frango no churrasco. Something clicks in Laurie’s head. She laughs out loud, startling Seda. 

“Chicken?” Laurie points emphatically at the sizeable mountain of meat in her plate. “It’s my favorite too! Do you want to share this with me? I can’t finish it. I only took it all because… well, because...” Laurie’s lively monologue trails off because she remembers Seda probably can’t understand her babbling, and also because she sheepishly realizes she didn’t have that noble a reason to hog the last of the Brazilian chicken. She extends the plate towards Seda in as friendly a manner as possible.

Seda’s eyes light up. She had barely comprehended what the other gymnast was saying, but there was one particular English word she had made sure to learn very well before coming to Rio.

 _Chicken_.

 

* * *

 

“Toot-a-kar-leen?”

The intense look of concentration on Laurie’s face makes Seda burst out in delighted laughter. Laurie feigns offence, but seeing Seda now with her guard down makes her unable to suppress a smile of her own. She really is terrible at this Russian business.

Seda eagerly leans forward over the almost empty plate of chicken sitting between them on the table. She slowly sounds out each syllable again. “Tut.  _Kha._  Lyan.” Seda emphasises the ‘kha’, a harsher tone that seems to come from the back of her throat and sounds like a rough gargle.

Laurie thoughtfully stabs a piece of chicken onto her fork. The more failed attempts at Seda’s surname she makes (meanwhile, Seda had sounded out ‘Hernandez’ perfectly from the get go), the more she’s starting to appreciate the complex tonal intricacies of the Russian language. She pops the chicken in her mouth, swallows and tries again.

“Toot-KHA — ” Laurie promptly chokes on a tiny bit of chicken that accidentally goes down the wrong chute. She starts coughing profusely. An alarmed Seda jumps to her feet, ready to rush over and whack Laurie on the back. She stops, confused, when she sees the American throw her head back and laugh, eyes a little watery, still coughing, but at least now without the embarrassing prospect of death by chicken.

“I hope you appreciate that I almost died trying to say your name, Seda.” Laurie points to Seda, then to herself, then jokingly pretends to choke again, rolling her eyes back and sticking her tongue out to the side.

Sitting back down, Seda shakes her head with a relieved chuckle. "Die speaking Russian name, good," she slowly puts together, a gleam lighting her eyes. 

Laurie arches a skeptical eyebrow, grinning. "How is that good, exactly?

“ _Seda? Shto ty dielaesh?_ ” A sharp question delivered in clear, no-nonsense Russian cuts through their warming conversation like a cold blade.

The color in Seda’s face drains. Her eyes dart towards someone standing behind Laurie. Afterwards, she avoids looking at the American, as though she realizes she’s crossed a line she shouldn’t have. Even more bewilderingly, Laurie senses a marked change in the air. The temperature around them feels like it’s dropped several degrees. She hurriedly turns around in her seat —and has to work hard to stop her mouth from falling open.

Staring down at Laurie is Aliya Mustafina.

If the Russian leader felt any surprise at the sight of her teammate seemingly bonding with an American gymnast, her piercing gaze doesn't betray it. Laurie swallows nervously.

 _She looks like she’s about to come over and slice me up into bite-sized pieces with just the tip of her pinky. And she’ll do it with the most amazing eyeshadow game ever._ Actual sweat breaks out on Laurie's brow. 

Under very different circumstances, Laurie would have asked for an autograph, maybe even a goofy selfie. She had absolutely idolized Aliya from a young age— in much the same way she idolized Aly, although of course she now considered her team captain one of her closest confidantes. Aliya Mustafina, however, doesn’t look like she’s in the mood for autographs, much less goof. Standing dutifully behind Aliya is her alluring, strikingly blonde Suicide Squad — Maria Paseka, Angelina Melnikova and Daria. Laurie catches Daria shooting Seda an ‘I told you so’ look, fingers deftly motioning for her to join them. 

_Laurie you look like an idiot. Just say something, anything, damn it._

As Laurie struggles to tamper down her inner Aliya fangirl, she unconsciously shrinks in her chair, feeling very much like an unwelcome outsider. An extremely outnumbered one at that. She had heard about the infamous Russian Bitch Face, seen it in action as a junior. But being the target of several of them all at once, and at such close range, and _… Aliya Mustafina_ _…_  is a wholly horrible experience. She tries to meet Seda’s eyes, hoping their enjoyable, if brief, exchange over chicken meant she would find some friendly island of solace. Seda, however, had already rejoined the rest of her teammates.  She’s being spoken to by a grim-faced Paseka, who has her locked into a sort of shoulder death grip.

Luckily — or unluckily, given what’s about to follow — Laurie is put out of her uncomfortable predicament by a voice she always looks forward to hearing, but never so much as right now.

“Laurie! There you are! You know Maggie will  _kill_  me if she ever finds out I let you loose in here all by yourself, right? And then Martha will use her magic voodoo beans to resurrect me and kill me a second time. We only took so long because Maddy accidentally got her hair stuck in the hair dryer, and we literally had to cut chunks of it off. Luckily Gabbs is kind of amazing at fixing — ”

* * *

 

Aly abruptly cuts herself off. 

She notices the ominous cluster of red and white jackets standing some distance behind her baby teammate. She’s drawn magnetically to one girl in particular — the dark hair perfectly pulled back into a tight bun, the long, smoky eyelashes that seem to go on forever, the all-too-familiar gaze that could burn down entire cities and towns.

The same gaze that, in the next several seconds, will suddenly find Aly too.

Aly doesn’t even notice when Laurie literally bowls her over out of sheer relief and promises never to run off again. She doesn’t notice when Gabby comes up to gently pry Laurie off, directs a concerned look at her petrified team captain, then wisely decides to herd Laurie back to where the rest of Team USA is sitting, a few tables away.

Aly can’t notice anything, except for one thing. Not when there’s a high-pitched ringing in her ears, growing louder and louder by the second. Not when all the air in her lungs have been sucked out of her in one painful instant.

As Aly Raisman and Aliya Mustafina lock eyes for the first time in Rio, the world comes crashing down.

 

* * *

 

**_“I’ll have an appropriate reaction when we see each other again.”_ **

White-hot emotion explodes inside Aly’s chest. It immediately inundates and weakens every fiber in her body. Yes, she remembers she has a body, but only barely, because her mind is working into an overdrive, trying to process the fact that she’s been unexpectedly propelled into the same space-time as Aliya Mustafina. Time seems to pass at a glacial speed, but her thoughts are going at a thousand miles an hour. 

_“Everything. Because of you.”_

She’s still as perfect as she ever was. Actually, more perfect.

 _“Remember I told you that you ruined it for everybody else? I didn’t say it right, because what you did was ruin_ me _. I don’t even function well nowadays. Nothing in me works.”_

“Aliya?” Only through sheer willpower does Aly force her mind to shape the right syllables into a coherent form. That’s about all she can manage. Saying the name feels like having molten lead poured over her.  _That_  name, even after so long, still seems to encompass the entire weight of the world.

Aliya stays frozen. Doesn’t respond. 

Aly wants to dash madly towards Aliya and grab her shoulders, to make sure she’s not some holographic image someone’s projected in front of her as a wonderfully cruel joke. Is this actually happening? Is she real? Is she happy to see me? Oh my god. She hates me. She probably hates me.

_“I’m tired of hurting all the time because I miss you all the time. Everything makes me think about you and sometimes I love that but mostly I hate it, and I hate that about myself; that I let you get to me so badly.”_

“How… how have you been?” Aly ventures timidly. Somehow, she gets her body under just enough control to take a shaky step forward towards Aliya. The girl stiffens, and makes as if to take a step back. But she doesn’t.

“Aliya,” Aly tries again, struggling with all her might not to let her voice betray the tremors pulsating through her whole being, “kak ty?” A faint flicker of… something. Maybe even the teeniest, tiniest hint of a smile? But it’s gone so fast, Aly’s not sure if she’s just seeing things because she wants to.

_“I thought I’d get better and this would get better but it just gets worse everyday, and this is the first time in my life that I can’t fix myself.”_

Aliya is the first to break eye contact.

She turns to her teammates, speaking swiftly to them in a low voice. Aly watches as Seda, Melnikova and Daria nod mutely, then immediately start making their way to the opposite side of the dining hall. They keep looking back, worried and terribly confused. Paseka, who knows far more than the others about what’s really going on, takes longer to convince. Eventually, she too agrees to give the two rival team captains some space. But only after shooting Aly a loaded warning glance.

Somewhat alone now (but not quite— both teams are warily monitoring their respective leaders from a safe distance), Aly makes a last-ditch attempt to break through. If only she could make her screaming brain behave for just long enough so as not make a complete fool of herself...  

“Aliya, I know we haven’t spoken in a long time. And you’re probably really angry at me, for a lot of good reasons. I just hope that… you know, since we’re both here in Rio  — I mean can you believe it?  — that maybe, maybe we could just find some time to sit down and talk? Just as friends. I know that we can’t… well things have changed, obviously, and…”

Aly rambles on. Things called words are tumbling out of her mouth (at least, she’s fairly certain that that’s what they are), and she desperately looks for a sign — any sign — in Aliya’s hauntingly beautiful face that will show those words are having their intended effect.

“Friend?”

For the briefest of moments, Aly closes her eyes to take in the first sound of Aliya’s voice she has heard in a very, very long time. Even if ‘friend’ was coated in something bordering on contempt, Aly is immediately reminded of why she used to savor each and every syllable Aliya spoke; every laugh Aliya emitted when Aly tripped over her own two feet; every sound that escaped when Aly would lean down and press her lips to Aliya’s neck…

“We don’t have to be friends,” she adds anxiously, seeing Aliya grimace as if in physical pain. Aly starts to panic, unsure if she can carry on this conversation (if you could even call it that; Aliya has said a total of one word) without making things worse. “I know I hurt you. Bad. We can just be… acquaintances.”

_Acquaintances? Jesus._

Aly hates that she can hear herself pleading . The more she pleads, the more it seems she’s killing off any chance of making things right. She’s usually good at handling stressful situations, but this…

In fact, Aly has played this scene through her head thousands of times. She had known eventually their paths would cross in Rio — she just hadn’t expected it to be so soon. Each time, Aly would imagine this going down a different way: Aliya, warmly giving Aly a hug and telling her that all was forgiven; Aliya, raising her hand as if to slap Aly across the face, but staying it at the last minute and pulling her in for an earth-shattering kiss; Aliya, raising her hand as if to slap Aly across the face, then bringing it down so hard that Aly would cry from the pain.

What takes place in the next, most excruciating minute of Aly’s life is something she never even contemplated.

She never contemplated watching something snap just below the surface of Aliya’s cool exterior. Never contemplated the Russian bringing her face up to stare directly into Aly’s eyes, her expression both defiant and eerily deadpan. Never, ever contemplated what Aliya utters next.

“Nothing.”

One word, laced with the blunt finality of a death sentence . Aly feels like her heart is being spliced open by a jagged edge saw. Nothing? Aly pushes aside what she thinks Aliya means. Surely, after all that they had gone through, after all these years, they could at least talk. If not as friends, then as… god, she doesn’t know. Something. Mortal enemies, even. Just not  _nothing_.

“Aliya, look I - ” she begins, but the Russian cuts her short, abruptly stepping forward within an inch of Aly’s face. Her dark eyes narrow with an iciness that chills Aly to the bone. There’s no fury, no anger, not even a hint of discomfort now. Just a scary, blank sort of… emptiness.

“You. Me.  _Nothing_.” The calculated force with which Aliya spits out the word ‘nothing’—as if to make sure it drives a stake right through the beating heart of whatever notion the American has of reconciling — makes Aly visibly flinch. If she had any doubts left about Aliya’s resolve to treat her as vapor, she had only to do what she used to love doing more than anything else in life: look deep into those eyes.

Those unusually expressive eyes that once brimmed with fiery passion for the entirety of Aly’s being and doing; with hungry lust for every curve and dip of her body; with exasperated affection for her terrible American jokes, and teasing tenderness at her equally terrible Russian; with intense love for the rare depth of Aly’s kindness — not a trace of any of those things was left.

In place of those things were the dying embers of something Aliya would have given up everything for, if Aly had only just asked when she still had the chance.

In their place was… nothing.

_You are nothing to me, Raisman._


	3. Doors

The second thought Aliya Mustafina has when Masha knocks on the bathroom door for the fifth straight time — after pushing aside the impulse to scream at her, at all of them, to just leave her the hell alone — is to breathe in. Deep.

 _For God’s sake. Stop it. It’s not their fault. It’s_ hers _…._

She holds the breath for as long as she can stand it.

_… It’s yours._

Aliya has no idea how long she’s been sitting motionless on the cold, green-and-white tiled floor of the bathroom suite she shares with Masha. It’s almost completely dark, except for the faint light filtering in through the awning window. The light is so dim, it barely catches the shards of glass lying a few feet away in a chaotic pile at the foot of the standing basin.

She wishes the floor would swallow her whole. Her bare legs are stretched out in front of her. Her back presses uncomfortably against the thick wooden door, its patterned indents digging painfully into her.

Short of being swallowed whole, pain is the next best thing. Anything to distract Aliya from the sickness in her gut telling her she’s still playing the fool in some twisted, cosmic stage play she thought she’d closed the final chapter on long ago. Her heart beats erratically against her ribcage, mocking her for having been so naive. She still…  _feels_  things, for the one person she swore never to feel one iota of anything for, ever again.

She's a little taller than Aliya last remembered. The way she wrapped her dark brown hair into a messy bun was new. It looked as if she had done it up in less than three seconds, to playfully taunt a world in which beauty typically takes hours. It sat atop her head higher than usual. Maybe that’s where the extra height came in.

Aliya scowls.  _What do I care about how she does her hair?_

Even when Aly Raisman was spewing some nonsense about how they should try and be friends ( _friends!_ ), the Russian couldn’t help but recognize with a sharp pang the distinct softness in her eyes that had so intrigued Aliya the first time they met. It had been buried beneath the sudden shock of the moment. But it was there. Mere inches from Aliya had radiated the softness of someone who always looks for the best in people and situations; who isn’t afraid to make a fool of themselves for the right reasons. 

On that note, Aliya has to catch herself — again — before the memory of Aly’s woefully mispronounced ‘kak ty’ makes her face involuntarily break into a wry smile. Four years, and her Russian had somehow gotten worse.

There was more. Aliya hadn’t wanted to detect it, but that damned unbreakable bond forged in London opened the American up like a book to her. When Aly was offering up her rambling apology, Aliya couldn’t help but feel that she really meant it. She  _wanted_  to make things right. She was someone who — Aliya swallows, an excited, terrified, lump rising in her throat — maybe, just maybe, still loved her.

 _No,_ Aliya reminds herself fiercely. _People who love you don’t choose to leave you._

Even after all this time, Aly Raisman remained beautiful in every sense of the word. Even after all she had done, and not done. Aliya hated that.  _But you don’t hate_ her, a voice whispers. Then she remembers she’s not supposed to 'hate' anything that has to do with Raisman. Hate is an emotion, and she refuses to have any Raisman-related emotion. 

Aliya clenches her jaw in pure annoyance. Trying to broker a truce between the warring factions of her mind is exhausting. 

_“Aliya?”_

Aliya squeezes her eyes shut harder. She tries to scrub from memory the sound of her own name rolling off Aly’s tongue. The girl might as well have reached out with her hand, pushed it through Aliya’s chest and forcefully taken hold of her beating heart in a vice grip.

Sinister black spots start to appear behind Aliya’s eyelids. She ignores them, refusing to draw breath.

It's been years since she felt that peculiar sensation of being crushed, slowly, on the inside. In the past, Aliya had learnt to welcome it. Love it, even. It overtook her each time Aly Raisman entered Aliya’s orbit, her unmistakable voice traveling effortlessly over any number of noises that should have easily drowned it out. Heavy mats being dragged around. World-class gymnasts tumbling, and falling, everywhere. Agitated coaches yelling loudly about twisted legs and crossed toes... The frustrating crackle of long-distance calls.

But ever since Aly had unilaterally decided Aliya was no longer worth the trouble, the Russian had had to force herself to unlearn everything she had opened herself up to in London. Layer by layer, she had painstakingly stripped off and numbed the warm rush of familiarity that flooded through her every time she came across something she associated with the American . The sound of ice being dispensed. Sodas from vending machines. Sodas in general. Sappy Russian music. American movies. Anyone foreign trying to speak Russian. Aliya had even sworn off Milka. She had almost forgotten what the creamy, full-flavored chocolate tasted like.

She  _had_  to forget. The constant familiarity, instead of being a bittersweet ache that nonetheless made her feel closer to Aly, had grown into a destructive, brutal anguish with each passing day Aliya didn’t hear from her. Remembering this, and all the sleepless nights spent crying inconsolably into drenched pillows, all the while hoping the other girls at Lake Krugloye couldn’t hear her, Aliya’s anger flares up again.

Screw being cold and uncaring. She’s freaking  _furious_.

Aliya can feel her brain screaming out at her to please just let it breathe. Unable to hold on any longer, she lets out what little oxygen is left in one big rush. Her eyes spring open. Images of the bathroom sink, the glass shower, and the curtains with ‘Rio’ scrawled in giant letters across the bottom, all charge at her in one dizzying go.

Gulping in mouthfuls of fresh air, the Russian looks down. Only now does she notice how tightly clenched her fists on either side of her are. As she slowly unclenches them, Aliya winces. A tiny drop of blood seeps out from the deep red marks where her fingernails have been digging into her own skin. The Russian gives out a low, bitter laugh.  _Now she’s making me bleed on the outside, too._

Aliya knows she should probably unlock the door and show her face, reassuring smile plastered on it, before the girls get too worried and find one of the coaches. That’s the last thing she needs right now. But before Aliya can force her immobilized body to respond, another urgent knock sounds on the door.

“I’ll be out in a minute!” Aliya yells. Her frustration at Masha's inability to understand her need for space makes her voice sharper than intended. She knows Masha is only looking out for her, being one of the few whom Aliya had broken down in front of after everything went to hell.

“Alka?” A softer, lower voice reverberates through the heavy wooden door. Aliya’s hardened resolve to shut out everyone relents , ever so slightly. 

Out of all the girls, she knows Seda won’t doggedly pepper her with questions if she makes it absolutely clear she’s not in the mood for any. Sighing, Aliya scoots over so she won’t be in the way when the door opens. She stretches one of her arms behind her and upwards, taking a few seconds to feel for the lock above. 

She finds it with her fingers. Clicks it to the left.

* * *

_“Aliya, you must not cry.”_

_Aliya isn’t crying, but she’s about to. Her coach, Alexander Alexandrov, knows this. He lifts her chin up, forcing her to look at him. Aliya compels the tears forming in her eyes to shut off._ _"I’m not,” she replies stiffly._

_“Good. You know how important it is to not show them any cracks in your armor.”_

_Despite the terribleness of the past few days, Aliya breaks into a sarcastic smile._ _“Alexander, we are not fighting in the Crusades here.”_

_“Given the current situation, we may as well be. The only reason why Valentina isn’t out publicly sharpening her pitchfork is because you did so well in London.”_

_“What about afterwards? When everyone forgets about the Games? You heard what Valentina’s been saying about me. She — ”_

_“Screw Valentina!” Alexander spits out angrily. “What comes out of that foul mouth of hers is batshit crazy, and you know it. Everyone knows it. If the Federation hadn't been hijacked by those spineless_ ublyudki _, the Rodionenkos would both be sent packing, off to tend to some useless vegetable garden in Krasnoyarsk where they can’t make everyone’s lives hell._ You _kept the team together._ You _won four Olympic medals. No thanks to them. They owe you everything!”_

 _Aliya is taken aback by Alexander’s outburst. Not that she disagrees with anything he is saying. But heated words aren’t going to solve the immediate problem looming over them._ _“If they’re going to fire you as head coach, who will take your place?" she asks worriedly. "There is no one good enough.”_

_“They might put Sergei Zelikson in. A perfect puppet.” Her coach bunches up his shoulders in a disgusted shru _g._ _

_Aliya snorts. “After what he did to poor Nastia? She came to me after London a complete mess. And he made it think it was all her fault! If I didn’t think it would make things worse for you, I would have gone to Zelikson myself and given him a piece of my mind. Not that it matters anymore. Look what he’s done to you.”_

_Alexander lets out a heavy sigh. “Yes, I will have to make time to see if Grishina is okay. I hear she will change coaches soon. The sooner the better for her, I think.” He glances at Aliya. “And you. You stay out of all this, understood? You are not who they are after.”_

_Aliya watches, hands on hips, as Alexander bends down to continue rolling up the spare floor mats. She should be helping, but she can't do anything other than fume. Aliya hates that this is happening to him. All the manoeuvring, the stupid, ugly politics. Her coach had done twice as much as any other for Russian gymnastics without uttering a single word of complaint. And this is how they were repaying him. She sighs despairingly._ _“If you’re not going to be head coach anymore, at least you’ll have more time to train me for the next Olympics.” Aliya tries to lighten the mood, hoping their usual good-natured ribbing will put some fight back into her deflated coach. “Let’s face it, I’m your only hope now. How does relaxing on a beach in Rio while I do all the hard work sound to you, old man?”_

 _As Alexander straightens up, Aliya notices him restlessly shifting his weight from one leg to the other. A strange look settles on his face._ _“Aliya. There is something else you must know. Nothing is set in stone yet, but…” Alexander pauses uncomfortably._

 _Aliya feels a cold pall wash over her. Dread rises from the pit of her stomach. She waits, afraid to even breathe._ _After a prolonged silence, Alexander continues. “I have been talking, with some good friends in Brazil — ”_

_“Brazil?!” Aliya can’t, won’t, believe where this conversation is headed._

_“ — and like I said, nothing is set in stone, but there may be some opportunities outside. I don’t know yet.”_

_“What are you saying? Are you leaving?” The palpable fear in Aliya’s voice raises her pitch by several tones._

_Alexander exhales uneasily._ _“I will not be going anywhere for at least the next few months. I will stay until… well until my job here is done.” He isn’t sure how to put delicately the fact that the only thing keeping him, really, is Aliya._

_“But you’re thinking about leaving Russia!” Aliya’s pulse is racing. This can’t be happening. She’s furious. Alexander was leaving her marooned behind dangerous enemy lines, with absolutely nothing but her own wits as protection._

_“It makes sense, doesn’t it? Aren’t you always complaining about my ‘oldness’ stifling your creative freedom? That it wouldn't kill me to listen to something other than Rachmaninoff and Kabalevsky? I hear the music scene in Brazil is really… what do you young people say,_ krutoi _? Maybe I’ll finally learn to appreciate that god-awful modern pop noise you girls are always wanting to use as floor music.” Alexander tries to pick up where the friendly banter had been left off. But Aliya’s shocked eyes, the way her lips are pursed in strong disapproval, tell him that ship has sailed._

 _“It’s not fair! You did nothing wrong. Why do you have to leave? Why do you have to leave_ me _?” Aliya doesn’t mean to sound so accusatory; she knows Alexander has been backed into a corner. But she can’t see how him leaving the country will make things any better, for either of them. If anything, it would only let the Rodionenkos think they had won. The thought of their smug, entitled faces sickens her._

_It wasn’t just that. For the second time in as many months, she was facing the prospect of being abandoned by someone she thought incapable of doing so._

_As Alexander watches his protégé struggling to process the news, a heavy sense of guilt builds in his chest. He had thought long and hard before deciding to tell Aliya of his plans. All in all, he was confident that putting as much distance between him and the Rodionenkos would be good for her. Still, he wasn't prepared to see Aliya this upset. There was no way around it — all the options available to him would still make Aliya feel as if she was the one being punished. And she would be right._

_Knowing it would take some time for reality to sink in, Alexander steps forward and pulls Aliya in for one of his infamous bear hugs._ _“Do not think on it anymore," he counsels softly. "It doesn’t matter what happens next. You know you can call me. Anytime, anywhere. If they give you any trouble, I will give them twice as much hell.”_

_Wiping away the tears now freely running down Aliya’s cheeks despite her best efforts to suppress them, Alexander brings his face down close to the distraught gymnast. He feels the same pain she does. Maybe more. For the longest time, the two of them had been bound together by ties thicker than blood. Alexander had kept Aliya under his wings for years, helping turn her into one of the most tenacious competitors gymnastics had ever seen. It was as if he knew her better than she knew herself. Believed in her, more than she could ever believe in herself._

_“Just these tears. Then no more.”_

_Aliya is used to Alexander putting exacting limits on her crying, but given the bombshell he just dropped on her, she feels she deserves more leeway. Nevertheless, Aliya takes in short, sharp breaths to make her tears subside. She has shed so many of them in recent weeks, she’s starting to tire of always feeling weak; of being utterly useless, unable to stop the people closest to her from leaving._ _“I like Kabalevsky,” she finally forces out in a tiny voice. Her eyes are lowered, as if one look at Alexander will set her tears off again._

_Alexander watches her concernedly, but a small smile makes its way onto his face. “I will see you here in the gym tomorrow morning. Same time. Nothing will change.”_

Except one day, you just won’t show up, _Aliya thinks bitterly. But she knows better than to pursue the matter further. She will fight Alexander on this another day._

_Placing a quick, reassuring kiss to Aliya’s cheek, and without a second look backwards, Alexander strides over to the gym doors and pulls them back. Then he’s gone._

_Aliya unconsciously hugs her arms around herself. An overbearing gloom descends over her. There is only one person in the world she wants to run to and be with right now. Someone who always knows exactly what to say to make Aliya feel like everything isn’t crashing down on her all at once._

_Ironically, it’s the other person to have abandoned her recently._

_She hasn’t heard from her in well over a month. An inner mess of emotions torments Aliya because of it. She’s scared — maybe something terrible has happened to Aly Raisman, and that’s why she has disappeared completely off the radar. Well, not completely. The girl still made frequent public appearances, but privately had cut off all contact. Something is very wrong, and Aliya hates how she can’t be there for her, to hold her and tell her everything will be okay._

_At other times, Aliya is angry. Why wouldn’t Aly have said anything, if some disaster had befallen her? Had she just given up? From their last conversation, Aliya knew Aly was getting tired. Of the distance, of everything. Maybe even of her. But thinking that just introduces another, confusing emotion into the mix — guilt, for ever doubting her. Aliya knows Aly is much stronger than that. She wouldn’t let go without a fight. Not after everything they had gone through to be together._

_Aliya’s head starts to hurt, as it always does when it tries to keep up with the emotional treadmill she's constantly running on these days. She needs answers, and she needs them fast._

_Suddenly, a crazy idea pops into her mind. She doesn’t like it one bit. At this point, though, she realizes she’s been backed into a corner of her own. Besides, this insane idea might actually work. She has nothing to lose anymore._

_She needs the Maroney girl._

* * *

Pressed against the door, Seda’s ears prick up at the sound of a lock being turned. Holding a fluffy vanilla ice-cream wafer cup in each hand, Seda carefully frees two of her fingers to push down on the metal door handle. As the door slowly swings all the way open, Seda glimpses the broken glass smashed all over the bathroom floor. She's unable to stifle a sharp intake of breath. Her eyes snap to the right and downwards, where Aliya is still seated with her back to the wall. Unmoving.

The Chistaya Liniya ice-creams she had diligently brought over to Rio to help soothe those inevitable moments of homesickness, drops to the floor with two dull splats.

In the few seconds it takes for Seda to register the shattered glass, Aliya has already deduced the crazy conclusion her rattled teammate is jumping to. She’s always been able to get an instant read on Seda —not that the girl makes it hard. It was one of the things about Seda that endeared her to Aliya, the way she wore her heart on her sleeve. That was something Aliya had fastidiously avoided doing for as long as she could remember.

If Seda wasn't so horrified by the thought that her team captain had broken some glass object in a despondent rage and tried to cut herself with it, she would have noticed Aliya  crack the slightest of grins.

“Privet, Seda,” Aliya says pleasantly.

Seda gapes at her. “Alka.  _Shit_. Oh my god. Are you alright?” Ice-cream waffles completely forgotten, Seda rushes to squat down beside Aliya. She frantically wants to reach out and check for any bleeding, but is too scared to actually touch her. Her brain isn’t equipped to handle Aliya having a life-threatening breakdown on a bathroom floor. It barely has the capacity to deal with one of her own meltdowns on the competition floor.

“Seda,” Aliya speaks again, a bit more firmly this time. But her teammate can’t seem to hear her. Her eyes are sweeping wildly over Aliya, checking for… signs. Adrenaline has completely taken over. Faintly amused, Aliya notes that Seda is in full-blown, shit-just-hit-the-fan mode.

“Shit. Shit! Okay. Stay right there. I’m going to get Grebs. Don’t move. I’ll go get Grebs. Shit…”

Aliya has never heard Seda curse so much in such a short amount of time. She snaps her fingers right up in front of Seda’s stricken face, now a ghostly sheet of white. “Whoa, Tutkhalyan! Chill. I’m fine.”

“You're not!” 

“I’m fine. Look.” Aliya turns over both her arms for Seda to check, somewhat unnecessarily, but it looks like the girl is about to faint if she doesn’t see some positive proof. She's swaying unsteadily on her haunches, and Aliya has to fight down a smile. “Masha put the glass too close to the edge of the sink, that’s all. She always does. I accidentally brushed against it when I was washing my hands. I’ll sweep it up in a bit.” Aliya places a hand on Seda’s arm and squeezes it. “Breathe.”

Her calm words finally seem to cut through, because the younger girl starts inhaling a bit more oxygen. The alarm carved onto Seda’s face makes Aliya momentarily forget her own misery. The wild rumors the media  spread— both at home and abroad — of her unpredictable, diva-like temper tantrums had its fun perks, particularly when it came to freaking out her younger teammates. They loved Aliya like the bad-ass, protective big sister they had always wanted, but were never quite sure of when she would snap. (She very rarely did.)

Seda sits down heavily on the floor. She glowers at Aliya, who is now openly grinning at her overly dramatic entrance. “You scared me!”

“I did no such thing. You made assumptions.”

“All of us were worried about you. You were in here for ages. What was I supposed to think?”

Aliya suddenly notices the edible ice-cream cups sitting in a sad, sticky puddle next to the door. “Are those Chistaya Liniya waffle cups?” she inquires, wonderingly.

“Don’t change the subject.” Seda is torn between being hugely relieved that Aliya seems to be just fine, and supremely annoyed at having embarrassed herself so badly in front of her.

“Help me up? I can’t feel my legs.”

Seda sniffs. “Serves you right. Grandmas shouldn’t sit for so long.”

Without waiting for Seda to agree to it, Aliya grasps her teammate’s arms with both her hands and leans against her as she forces her two legs to stand. Seda sighs, and moves to better support Aliya as she hops from leg to leg, trying to coax the blood flow downwards.

Once the lower half of her body regains a bit of sensation, Aliya again turns her attention to the melted ice-cream. Chistaya Liniya waffle cups are Aliya’s all-time favorite. They remind her of a childhood spent in beautiful Moscow, when simple pleasures like eating creamy vanilla ice-cream on a freezing winter’s day made all the tears and anger and yelling in the gym fade away. “Where did you get those?” she asks, giving Seda an impressed look. “I’m pretty sure you can’t find them here in Brazil.”

“I smuggled them in on Grebs’ personal esky cooler. You know, the one he uses to store the gin he says he doesn’t drink. I was going to save them for everyone until after team finals. I thought… I thought it might make you feel better.” Seda sounds a bit sullen. Still, she’s decided seeing Aliya getting excited about ice-cream beats the other, more disturbing scenario her imagination had conjured up moments ago.

Aliya’s battle-weary heart melts a little. “Seda. You are God’s gift to Russian gymnastics, you know that?” She grabs Seda’s face and plants a kiss on the side of her cheek. Seda blushes. Then she remembers she’s meant to be annoyed at Aliya, and folds her arms across her chest in a feeble attempt at looking displeased.

“Are there more? With all the drama you put yourself through tonight - ” Aliya watches Seda’s face immediately cloud over, “- I mean, I put you through, I think we deserve a little something to cheer us both up.”

The girl could never resist Aliya’s charm offensive for long. “Yeah, I brought over heaps! Enough to feed the entire Russian army.”

Aliya chews on her lip, thinking. “We will get two more, and take them outside to that nice bridge close by. We could do with some fresh air.”

Seda takes an instant liking to the idea, but pauses apprehensively. “Isn’t it kind of late? If Valentina found out I broke curfew, she’s going to hate me more than she already does.”

“Valentina doesn’t hate you,” Aliya reassures her.

Seda makes a face. “She does. The only reason why I’m here is because… well, you know.”

Her self-defeating statement causes Aliya’s heart to break a little. She hates how the drama she endured starting as a junior is being revisited on the younger girls. Why can’t the grown-ups just let them do what they love — gymnastics — without all the behind-the-scenes nastiness? Seda deserved to be in Rio just as much as anyone else on the team. It was idiotic for the Rodionenkos to have made it so glaringly plain they would have sent Ksenia, had she been healthy enough to compete.

“Valentina hates me too,” Aliya says, shooting Seda a sympathetic smile. “Join the club.”

“No she doesn’t. She can’t. You’re Aliya Mustafina. Back home, people build shrines dedicated to you. They name streets after you.”

Aliya isn’t sure whether to frown or laugh at that. “That’s not true!”

Seda raises an ironic eyebrow as Aliya looks at her, both thinking of the same thing. Just days ago, Seda had shown Aliya a news article about a fanatic bunch of Russian fans petitioning the government to rename one of the old promenades in Moscow’s historic centre ‘Mustafina Avenue’. Rumors were that the deputy mayor for urban development — a fan of gymnastics himself — was actually considering it.

The two gymnasts burst out laughing. Fame, they had learned, has its weird moments.

“You just wait until after these Olympic Games. People will be sending you marriage proposals by the truckload,” Aliya retorts. “So before that happens and you won’t have any time for me, how about that ice-cream date?”

“I don’t know…” Seda gazes longingly out the window, but remains unsure.

Aliya sighs gravely, suddenly looking very serious. “Seda, it’s time you learn the true way of the Russian gymnast.” The reverent manner in which Aliya says ‘the true way’ makes it sound like she’s about to reveal the secret to eternal life. She crosses her arms defiantly, locking eyes with her teammate. “It’s why what Valentina says or thinks doesn’t matter. Why we have to go out right now and eat some damn ice-cream. And why we are the greatest nation ever to compete in our sport.”

Seda frowns. “Except for the Americans.”

Aliya offers a sly grin. “Nyet. Not even the Americans have this on us.”

Seda’s eyes widen. Anything that would help make Valentina a less scary spectre in her mind was worth learning. “I’m ready. What is it?”

“We master the art of having absolutely zero fucks to give.”

* * *

Relaxing next to Seda as she happily slurps on her ice-cream, Aliya feels a lot better already. It’s funny how the simplest thing can turn out to be the best salve for the soul.

They had found a quiet, tranquil spot some distance away from the Russian apartment block — a winding footbridge overlooking a pool of crystal blue water. A few Olympians from various nations are milling about on the grassy hills nearby. Other than that, Aliya and Seda have the whole Rio night sky to themselves. The two sit side by side, their legs swinging over the bridge’s edge. Empty Chistaya Linaya wrappers lie on the ground next to them.

“So. How does it feel to be a true Russian gymnast?” Aliya looks over at her teammate questioningly.

Seda crunches into the wafer cup, without a care in the world. “Amazing!”

Aliya’s laugh rings out over the crisp night air. It’s not something Aliya can explain, but she feels unusually at ease around Seda. Despite the differences in age and experience, she can share things with Seda she would hesitate to let her closest friends in on. She can say things freely without having to worry about being judged.

For awhile, the only sound accompanying the silent lyrics of Aliya’s thoughts is Seda’s blissful munching. Aliya closes her eyes, breathing in the stillness of the night. A question is playing on her mind, but she’s carefully strategizing in her head how to ask it without having the conversation steer dangerously towards things she would rather not talk about. She finally breaks the silence. “Earlier in the cafeteria today, with the American. Hernandez? Did you know her already from before?”

Seda glances sideways at Aliya, then grins at the memory of Laurie’s innovative way of pronouncing her last name. “Not at all. When you saw us, that was the first time we ever talked.”

A look of surprise crosses Aliya’s face. “But you two seemed like such good friends.”

Seda finishes the last of her wafer cup and dusts the remaining crumbs off her hands. She absentmindedly starts to pick at the zipper on the front of her team jacket. “It was strange. I liked her right away. Even though I had no idea what she was saying most of the time. She talks extremely fast. I really need to improve my English.”

Aliya goes quiet. Seda watches her, unable to tell what the solemn, faraway look in Aliya’s expression means. She doesn’t have to wait long to find out.

“You need to be careful, Seda.” Aliya says this softly, not really as a warning, but more as a summation of everything she’s been pondering on the whole time they’ve been sitting there.

Seda blinks. “What do you mean?”

Aliya shifts uneasily, struggling to arrange the jumble of thoughts and feelings about what had happened today into coherent sentences without giving too much away. “I mean… all the coaches go on about how important it is to make friends with gymnasts from all over the world. And it is. But there are unspoken rules that apply in certain situations. Especially with the Americans.” When Aliya mentions the Americans, she chokes up a little, but recovers herself quickly.

In her head, Seda replays the strange and uncomfortably charged encounter earlier between Aliya and a certain American gymnast. She isn’t sure if she should broach the subject, but her naturally curious nature always gets the better of her. “Does this have something to do with Raisman?” she inquires delicately. They’re sitting so close, Seda feels Aliya’s body tense up without having to look at her.

“Why do you ask?”

Seda is keenly aware she’s stepping on eggshells. “It’s just that today, I felt something. Actually, I think we all felt it. When you and Raisman were speaking…” She pauses, unsure of how to finish the sentence. What she means to ask is whether or not there’s something more going on between Aliya and the American team captain. But even she’s not so brave, or foolish, enough to be explicit about it.

Aliya fidgets nervously with her fingers. For a moment, it’s all very touch-and-go. Part of her wants to promptly shut down this attempt to get her to open up about her past with Aly , as she usually does. Another part of her is frayed at the edges from having to hide it all the time. She finally finds a suitable compromise between the two conflicting emotions.

“She was very important to me,” Aliya says in a measured voice. Her simple words convey the weight of a deep history that, while still unexpressed, had clearly caused a great deal of pain. Seda lets this momentous discovery sink in for awhile. She had heard bits and pieces from the older girls about Aliya’s unusual closeness to the American, but it had been too far-fetched, too impossible to believe. Cautiously, breathlessly, Seda poses the question, “Did you love her?”

Aliya flinches, but doesn’t tell Seda off. She glances down at the water below, trying to think of a way to phrase the answer in a way that makes clear there is no longer anything of significance that exists; but what remains cuts so deep, it could never be dismissed as wholly insignificant. She settles on one word, said with as much nonchalance as her palpitating heart will allow. “Da.”

“Do you… still?”

The quickness with which Aliya snaps her gaze towards Seda makes the younger gymnast shrink back in fear.

“We should head back. Podium training tomorrow.”

Seda registers the distinct coolness in Aliya’s tone. She had overstepped with that one.

Not wanting to leave the evening on such a somber note, Seda feels obligated to lighten the mood to what it was, before she had been so audacious as to dig into Aliya’s cryptic connection to Raisman. Rummaging through her knapsack, Seda produces several small, different colored packets of candy. A few are already ripped open, the foil packaging spilling out of them.

“I almost forgot! Melka and I took the shuttle to the international store in the Village this afternoon. It's humongous. We went absolutely nuts. Here, take this. I tried pretty much all the chocolate I could find, but this one tasted the best by a mile. Even better than the Swiss.”

Aliya takes one look at the orange packet in Seda’s outstretched hand and suddenly recoils. She looks as if she’s about to be sick. Seda drops the packet and reaches out to steady her, worried.

“Alka? Are you okay?”

In an instant, Seda finds herself being pulled into one of the tightest hugs Aliya has ever given her. 

At first, everything is silent. And then it begins. 

Muffled whimpers into Seda’s shoulder, which quickly turn into wracking sobs. Then intense, grief-stricken cries, each one causing Aliya’s body to seize up in tremors and convulsions. Seda is horrified; she has no idea how to respond, other than to encircle her arms even tighter around Aliya, repeatedly whispering comforting words that don't seem to be of any comfort at all.

She also resolutely makes up her mind to throw away all the Reese’s Pieces she had planned to share with Team Russia later.

* * *

 

_“Your 2009 floor music. It sounds like a fancy royal procession. Complete with lions and bears. Russian bears, of course.”_

_“You are crazy. Why bears? And what means pro-cess-shon?”_

_“A procession is like a parade. Of kings and queens, princes and princesses. It's very grand.”_ _Aly warms upon hearing the satisfied laugh on the other end of the line._

 _“_ _Yes. That is correct. I like music with… we say_ grandioznost _. And fast, with beating heart.” The way Aliya describes her musical taste with her limited English somehow makes perfect, poetic sense. Aptly, it makes Aly’s heart beat just a little faster._

_“And your 2011 music. It’s dangerous. Like Zorro, trying to escape a burning building. Then of course there’s your 2012 music,” she continues._

_“I not know this Zorro. But what is question? You not like my music? You are scared, Raisman, of music with much power?”_

_Aly can almost see the smugness on Aliya’s face. It brings a grin to her own._ _“My question is, why does your floor music always have to be so dramatic?”_

_“And why your music sound always like bad party in American bar?”_

__"It does not!"_ Aly means to protest, but laughter escapes instead. Her amusement at the other girl’s bluntness travels thousands of miles over the phone to Moscow, where it sends pleasant shivers down Aliya’s spine. It’s the middle of the day, but Aly is spread out over her bed, the curtains of her Minneapolis hotel room drawn tightly closed. The rest of the gymnasts are out sightseeing, taking a much needed break from the exhausting schedule of the Kelloggs Tour. Jordyn and McKayla had begged Aly to go with them to check out a new play at the Guthrie Theatre, but all Aly wanted to do was shut the rest of the world out, and relish this rare opportunity to be in bed at exactly the same time Aliya is._

_Still, she's not about to take that last dig lying down. “O_ _kay, my Olympics floor music kind of sounds like that. It’s something you would play at a Jewish wedding. It's hard for those to be bad, though. We know how to party.”_

_Aliya isn’t done teasing. “When I listen your floor music, all I seeing is big_ tako _on your head.”_

_“Huh? Taco?” At first Aly has no idea what Aliya is referring to. Then it clicks. The Russian was making fun of the hugely popular gif someone had made of her lifting a massive burrito over her head during a particular segment of her Olympic floor routine. She cracks up. “It’s a burrito, not a taco. And you’re so mean! Where did you even see that?”_

_It’s Aliya’s turn to be amused. “Aly. We have internet here in Moscow.”_

_“Oh yeah.” They have the internet in Russia. Obviously. Aly blushes. She always does, when Aliya says her name like that. That half-taunting, half-doting tone she uses makes Aly feel like the luckiest person ever, because she’s pretty sure she’s the only person in the world Aliya would tolerate such silliness from._

_They keep talking for hours, about everything and anything. Sometimes they say nothing at all, preferring instead to listen to each other’s breathing. Aly can tell by the slowing rate of conversation, however, that Aliya is starting to drift off._

_“Aly?” The sleepiness in Aliya’s  voice makes Aly wish so bad she could pull the girl in close to her. Close enough to count her heartbeats. She can’t, so she wistfully wraps her arms and legs around a large pillow instead._

_“I’m here, Aliya. Sleep…”_

_“You will be here in morning, when I wake? I have interview, very early.”_

_Aly checks the time and does a few quick calculations. In a couple of hours, she’s expected to be in rehearsals again. Maybe she can get away with being fashionably late. Or maybe it won't matter if she turns up after most of her performance parts have already been run through._

_“Of course I’ll be here,” she says, her heart swelling._

_“You will, always?” Mumbling, Aliya barely gets the sentence out._

_Aly smiles. The love of her life is on the cusp of unconsciousness._

_“Always.”_

* * *

 

Aly’s eyes shoot open. She immediately checks the digital clock perched on the nightstand next to her.

9.02pm. Shit. She hadn’t meant to oversleep by so much. Martha was going to kill her for missing out on the evening briefing, the last one before podium training tomorrow. Why hadn’t the girls woken her up?

Exhausted, her head still aching from the non-stop dreams about Aliya she’s been having since crying herself to sleep in the afternoon, Aly sinks back into the bed, covering her eyes tiredly with one hand.

_You. Me. Nothing._

Aly wishes she could re-do the past few hours. She would never have walked up to the Russian. And then she never would have had to hear those three words, spoken with all the emotion of a cold fish, now echoing endlessly in the chambers of her mind. Now what?

After stewing in her thoughts for a few minutes, Aly abruptly sits up, her mind made up. She didn’t make it all the way to Rio to just  _stew_.

Pulling on her Team USA jacket and track pants as fast as she can, Aly gingerly pushes open the door to her room. She pauses to listen for any sounds of the girls lounging around outside in the suite.

Silence.

Before long, Aly is making her way stealthily across the Olympic Village. She knows exactly where to go. Aly, being Aly, had chatted casually to a group of gorgeous Russian rhythmic gymnasts waiting with the Americans for the shuttle taking them to the training hall that morning. A few friendly introductions, followed by some genuine comments about how much Aly admired their incredible dancing abilities. Then a string of meticulously placed questions about how they found their living quarters, who else was on their floor - and Aly soon knew where Aliya Mustafina was rooming. It had almost been too easy. 

Her footsteps pound noisily on the pavement. She passes a giant statue of Vinicius, the part-jaguar, part-monkey cartoon mascot for the Games. Aly had read in her guidebook it was designed in tribute to Brazilian musician Vinicius de Moraes. She makes a mental note to show her mom, a lifelong fan of his. 

Aly guesses she’s been power walking for about ten minutes now. Luckily, the Russian apartment block isn’t too far . But even if it had been on the other side of the moon, Aly would have traveled the entire way there too.

As soon as she finds the right building — it’s impossible to miss, with an enormous Russian flag draped down the side from one of the balconies — she does a quick scan of the surrounding area. It’s late enough that no one is loitering around in the common areas. Breathing heavily from the adrenaline flowing through her veins, Aly makes her way inside. She steps past the sleeping guard bent over the reception desk (how are they  _always_  sleeping?), and nervously presses the elevator button.

It’s only when Aly is standing directly in front of what she thinks is Aliya Mustafina’s suite, that a depressing thought strikes her. How she always seems to be on the wrong side of someone’s door at the Olympics. In London, it had been Jordyn’s, after the shock of qualifying before her best friend and America’s anointed one. Now, it’s the door of the Russian champion with the midnight eyes who still holds her soul captive - and wants nothing to do with her.

The silence in the hallway is smothering. A tiny, high-pitched voice in the back of Aly’s mind warns her that at any moment, a gang of Russian athletes are going to spill out from one of the rooms and gawk at the hyperventilating American standing outside their teammate’s room.

She ignores it and raises a fist to the wood-paneled door. After a few more seconds of hesitation, she knocks. 

Four quick raps. Once for each year that has passed since Aliya Mustafina first stole Aly’s breath with one tiny, seemingly inconsequential word.

Aly waits, heart pounding in her ears.


	4. Bars

The second thought Aly Raisman has when Mihai exults over the best ever Amanar he’s seen her do, is strangely subdued. Arms raised in salute, the initial euphoria of the stuck landing — she’d surprised even herself — had lasted two seconds. Then came the disturbing flashbacks.

_What in the freaking world were you thinking? What have you done?_

The team captain steps off the mat, just as Gabby starts pounding down the 80-foot runway. Mihai comes over to envelope Aly in a proud hug — she’s killing podium training, he whispers in her ear. Floor was great. Beam, outstanding. Just bars left, and she’s home free.

Half-listening to Mihai’s upbeat pep talk as she makes her way back down the side area, Aly spots Martha in the distance, Cheshire cat grin radiating her way. She forces the corners of her mouth to turn upwards. If she’s going to prove she deserves this redemptive shot at the all-around, she’d better look like she wants it. God knows how many girls would kill to be in her position. The distant sound of Laurie laughing with Madison, a little more forced than usual, drives that home painfully. Aly feels a pang for her youngest teammate.

She does want this. Bad. It’s just… well,  _last night._

Simone, casually winding tape around her wrist, glances at Aly as she approaches. “What’s wrong with you, girl?” she murmurs quietly to a glum-faced Olympian now rummaging around inside an over-stuffed duffel bag. “That was one hell of a two-and-a-half.”

“Yeah, thanks. The block could’ve been better.” Aly’s intense level of concentration during training is infamous, but even this lack of exuberance is unusual for her.

“You okay?” Simone knows the girl isn’t, but can’t quite put her finger on why. The only clues are the faint dark circles under Aly’s eyes, barely visible under flawless makeup at a close enough range.

“I’m fine. It’s just… you know, the whole situation,” Aly says, unconvincingly. Without another word, she sits down on the floor next to Simone, a huge roll of athletic tape bunched in one fist.

Simone can sense there’s something else — it might have something to do with the mysterious confrontation with Aliya Mustafina in the cafeteria the day before — but decides to let it go. For now. Besides, the ‘whole situation’ really is a drag. It was no secret Maggie had fought hard for Laurie to compete in all four events, to no avail. With Madison holding down bars, there was room only for three of them to duke it out in qualifications. And Martha had, not without reason, ruled out benching Gabby, the defending all-around Olympic gold medalist. Tears were shed, terse words exchanged ; but eventually, someone had to foot America’s bill for fielding the most ridiculously well-oiled gymnastics machine in existence.

The girls had been briefed on how to brush off the inevitable media speculation and fan outrage. Laurie, mature beyond her years, seemed determined to paper over tensions with an endless supply of bedazzling smiles. Any personal disappointment was dealt with privately. Her sage acceptance of how the chips had fallen made everyone feel even worse for her. And so a fragile detente had settled over Team USA — one that would hopefully turn into strong team spirit as team finals drew closer.

Simone sighs dejectedly. “I know. Stupid rules. It’s not fair.” The pint-sized champion rips the tape to finish it off, and starts on the other wrist. She doesn’t catch the bemused look Aly throws her way.

“That’s all the tape you’re using?”

Simone looks up with a devilish grin. She motions towards the mountain of unused tape piled on top of a Team USA bag. “Didn’t think there was enough left for you, so I’m cutting back on mine. You’re welcome.”

Aly rolls her eyes, but the jab prompts a smile. So she uses four times as much tape as Simone does. So? “I’m a normal, responsible gymnast. Taking care of wrists made of actual human bone,” she shoots back, only to be met with peals of laughter.

Eventually, Aly gives up trying to convince Simone that she’s not an overly cautious, breakable grandma. She focuses instead on preparing her wrists for the hell they’re about to endure. Her eyes are drawn to the Dutch gymnast pirouetting deftly on bars across the training hall .

Eythora Thorsdottir floats from the high bar down to the low in a blur of orange. As she does, a series of thoughts tumbles through Aly's mind like dominoes. Perfectly timed swings, a hit handstand, reasonably effortless transitions. Not high in difficulty, but prettily done… though someone does it more beautifully, and with unrivaled mastery. Nice straddle jaeger, if a little short. Thorsdottir makes an impressive and easy peace with bars, Aly muses. Not quite at the level of whipping them into total submission, however. Not like Aliya.

Aly hurriedly averts her eyes — a belated effort to cast out all reminders of the arrestingly pale face that have been testing her Spartan focus since waking this morning. Or more accurately, since London, in the busy lobby of the hotel they shared. Or is it since 2010 Worlds, where a set of particularly pouty lips had imprinted themselves on her mind?

Wherever the exact origins of this distraction, it was too late to undo its stranglehold on her now. For the millionth time, her mind latches back onto last night’s disastrous campaign to seek out its fiery Russian source. Starts exhaustively picking through all the things she should have said and done differently.

* * *

 

_The door swings open. Fast. Much faster than Aly anticipated. It throws her off immediately._

_An exuberant string of Russian starts up, abruptly trailing off the instant the speaker sees who’s standing there. A glare laser-beams towards Aly at full force._

_“Ty?” Maria Paseka’s piercing blue eyes widen in shock. They take in the unseemly Team USA tracksuit, adorned with an even more unsightly flag. (Too many stars and stripes. Do they know nothing of subtlety?) The unkempt bed hair. The gawky, rosy-cheeked American staring dumbly back at her. Then they narrow, heavy with suspicion. “You,” Paseka repeats stiffly in English._

_Aly freezes on the spot. An uncomfortable heat rises from her stomach. The adrenaline from moments before, the very thing that had courageously propelled her all the way here, has evaporated into sheer panic. The realization that this is a very, very bad idea attacks her every functioning brain cell._ _“Privet, Maria," she manages to croak out, before offering a weak smile. It adds to the aura of idiocy she’s keenly aware she’s giving off right now. To her credit, the silk pyjama-clad Russian doesn’t immediately call for security._

 _Clearing her throat, Aly tries desperately to scrape together some semblance of dignity._ _“I’m sorry for disturbing you so late. Prasteetye.” She trips over the foreign word, and fights down a blush. “This is not normal, I know.”_

 _Paseka's expression shifts as if to scoff:_ Clearly _._

_“I… I hope your back is feeling better? I heard that it’s been causing you some pain.” Maybe starting with some well-meaning concern will make a difficult conversation less so._

_Wordlessly, the Russian tips her head at an exact forty-five degree angle and back again, such that Aly has no idea whether it means ‘yes, thank you for asking, my back is doing better’, or ‘no, actually, it’s gotten worse’, or ‘please bitch, none of your goddamn business’. Right._   _Aly takes the hint and loses the small talk._ _“Um. I don’t want to bother you any more than I have already. Is Aliya here?”_

_Again, the icy look carved on the Russian’s face makes Aly unsure of how much has been understood. She’s met Paseka many times before in past competitions, each time exchanging nothing more than warm handshakes and the briefest of congratulations. Her brilliant dimpled smile — conspicuously absent now—always made Paseka seem charming and approachable._

_For several painfully dragged out moments, Aly waits. Wishes she had spent more time polishing the little Russian she did know._

_“You look for Aliya.” At last, a crack in the ice betrays an accent slightly thicker than Aliya’s. The curt sentence and Russian surliness combine to produce a strong air of distaste. Maybe the girl is just anxious to get back to bed, Aly tells herself. Every precious hour of sleep counts at the Olympics. Or maybe it’s the discomfort of being forced to speak a foreign language._

_“Y-yes," Aly stumbles a bit over her words. "I have something to talk to her about. It’s urgent. Pa…pa-zhal-sta.”_

_“Aliya not here.” The statement’s frosty delivery confirms at least one thing — Paseka's antipathy runs deeper than mere sleep deprivation._ _It wasn’t as if Aly had expected a balloons and streamers sort of welcome, but nor had she predicted a complete stiff. Paseka stands, arms crossed and feet planted shoulder-width apart, obstinately blocking the entrance to the suite._

_“She’s not here?” Aly finds that hard to believe. Where else would Aliya be at this time of night?_

_“Even she here, you not see her.”_

_Ouch._

_“Well, I…” Aly managers to stutter out the beginning of a sentence she has no idea how to end._

_She’s unceremoniously cut off. “You have no… right, here,” Paseka says haughtily, and with more than a hint of pride at landing on the appropriate word. “You must go.” She takes in a breath, like she’s about to say more; then suddenly changes her mind, muttering a Russian expletive under her breath. She_ _narrows her almond-shaped eyes to signal that she’s done. Turning regally as if dismissing a lowly cretin, Paseka moves to close the door._

 _“Wait!” For all her unpreparedness for this wall of hostility, Aly is far from ready to give up. She’s not making that same mistake again._ _An impatient sigh from Paseka buys Aly a little bit more time._ _“I know you must think I’m crazy," she pleads, "and you’re right — ”_

_A knowing smirk surfaces on the other girl’s face._

_“ — I have no right to speak to her. But I really just want to clear the air — ”_

_A look of confusion at that strange turn of phrase._

_“ — If I could just have five minutes with her. That’s all I’m asking. Five minutes.”_

_For a triumphant second, Aly thinks her trademark rambling has miraculously gotten through. Paseka's eyes soften somewhat. Then—_

_“She meet someone. She is happy now.”_

_At first, Aly isn’t sure she heard right. The monstrous cracking noise in her head the instant 'She meet someone' punctured her consciousness blocked out everything else that followed. She could have sworn it was the sound of her heart breaking, because it feels like a stiletto heel just stomped on it._

_Paseka takes advantage of the American’s shell-shocked silence to continue demolishing any hope Aly might mistakenly be clinging to._ _“She meet nice boy. In Moscow. Aliya very happy. No cry, no more fight with coach, fight with parents. No strong drink, every night, all night. No wait next telefon for call from America, never come. No words say she want stop… gimnastika. She is here in Rio, because she happy again.”_

 _It’s the most number of sentences Aly has heard Paseka speak in one go. Each one feels like it was flung at her with the combined toxicity of all the venomous snakes in all the world. Fighting? Drinking? Nauseating guilt hits Aly. And... a 'nice' boy? That doesn't sound right. Not for Aliya. But then again, why wouldn't it be true? Did she really think Aliya would wait four years for her to get her act together, then welcome her back with open arms? Aly shudders, the stupidity of her_ _overconfidence dawning on her._

 _“Raisman. You love her?” Paseka throws the question down at Aly’s feet, snapping the American out of the horror just long enough for her to remember where she is._ _Still numb, Aly nods._ More than I will ever love anyone else in this lifetime. And the next. I’ll love her even if she can’t or won’t love me again. Even if her love now belongs to someone else...

 _Aly can’t bring herself to stomach the thought. The fact that she’s realizing all of this only_ after _having been confronted with the possibility of having lost Aliya for good, fills her with a violent regret._

_“Then you leave. Not speak to Aliya.” For the first time this whole conversation, Paseka allows the profound concern for her friend come through, unguarded. It takes the hostile edge off her voice considerably. “It is better. You love Aliya… you let her go.”_

* * *

 

Let her go.

“Aly. Yo, Grams! We’re rotating to bars.” A familiar, faraway voice pierces Aly’s agonizing recall. Simone tries catching her friend’s eyes, forehead crinkled in worry. Aly’s face is drained of blood, like she's about to hurl from traveling thousands of miles on an endless road to nowhere.

The team captain slowly comes to, faintly aware she has a job to finish in the Rio Olympic Arena. Still on auto-pilot mode, Aly summons what little emotional strength she has left to flash Simone one of the brightest smiles this side of the Atlantic Ocean. “Great! Let’s gooo, bars!”

Simone’s jaw drops, an incredulous look etched into her face.

Chiding herself inwardly for the overkill, Aly abruptly stands and busies herself adjusting a particularly stubborn strap on the bag closest to her. She realizes only a full half minute later that the strap is non-adjustable.

Having observed all of this, the three-time world champion turns away and pretends, out of deep sympathy, that she hadn’t.

Meanwhile, the two-time Olympian wishes a blackhole would open up so she could throw herself into it.

God, she hates bars.

* * *

 

Masha waits, biding her time. Her patriotic, tricolor lacquered fingernails tap lightly on the ceramic-glazed bench top. Opposite her sits Aliya, stormy eyes matching Masha’s stare with a seasoned stoniness. In the sun-drenched common area of Team Russia’s Olympic suite, the two appear thoroughly intent on carrying out an internecine Cold War.

Two Russians can play at this game; only one of them has never known the taste of defeat. Aliya gives a sardonic smile. As if reading her team leader’s mind, Masha swallows hard, just barely managing to keep a picture of cool.

Caught in the firing lines is Seda. Seated on a bar stool at equal distance between her friends, she nervously twiddles her fingers, eyes darting back and forth.

“Guys, how about we just…”

“Zip it, Tutkhalyan," Masha cuts in. "Unless you’re going to tell me what you two were doing out so late last night.” Half out of relief for the excuse to break eye contact with an increasingly intimidating Aliya, and half expecting Seda to spill, Masha redirects her interrogative zeal towards her. Seda immediately shuts her mouth. The way her large eyes seize up as if they’re holding back a scandalous secret, however, elicits a snort from Masha. “I knew it,” she crows triumphantly.

Seda transmits a silent apology to Aliya for her abominable lack of a poker face. Aliya gives her a reassuring smile, before turning her attention back to their questioner. “We just went out to get some fresh air, Masha. There is nothing to it.”

“Right. You guys disappeared for ages, then came back just as the American left. You must have run into her.”

It doesn’t show, but Aliya is grateful she’s had at least one night to try and process the fact that Aly had shown up uninvited, deep inside Russian territory. She’s still not quite sure how she should react. Except to strictly keep in check the stirrings of mild delight at the thought.

“We didn’t see anyone,” Aliya says demurely. Seda nods furiously, glad she doesn’t have to lie on that particular matter. They had returned late, Seda having finally convinced Aliya all remnants of tear stains and blotchy skin had disappeared. On arriving back at their suite, they found Masha pacing restlessly around the living room, impatient to regale her teammates with details of the extraordinary encounter she had just had with the American team captain.

According to Masha’s lively retelling, Aly Raisman looked like she had been hit by a hurricane. She either spoke nothing at all, or spoke all at once. Her Russian was appalling. Seda had had to bite back a grin, because talk of Americans mangling her native language now automatically conjures an image of Laurie choking on a piece of chicken . Aliya had listened mutely, retreating into her shell as she always did whenever Raisman was brought up.

“One day, they’re exploiting the baby’s appetite for chicken to get close enough to psyche her out; the next night, Raisman sneaks over and demands to speak with you, Alka. Doesn’t that seem odd to you both? They’re up to something. And I don’t like it. At all.” As she lays down the skeleton of a conspiracy theory, Masha folds her arms adamantly.

Seda immediately objects to being referred to as ‘the baby’, and the ludicrous idea that the Americans are trying to ‘psyche her out’. Her mind has determined Laurie to be a sweet girl, incapable of such subterfuge.

Aliya agrees. “Masha. The Americans are not out to ‘get’ Seda. You really think they would, or even could, plan an elaborate sabotage involving grilled chicken?” The Russian captain marvels at the absurdity of that sentence even as it rolls sharply off her tongue. 

“Well, they targeted her first. And look what it did to the poor girl at podium training today,” Masha says. She offers Seda an apologetic glance for bringing up her disappointing showing this morning. Earlier, Masha had given plenty of comforting hugs and words of advice to Seda as she fought back tears at a particularly disastrous beam rotation. But the truth needed telling.

The baby pipes in to defend both herself and Laurie. “For the millionth time, she only invited me to sit down because I wanted — ”

“Yes, yes, the damn chicken,” Masha waves her hand dismissively. “Seda when we found you, the chicken was all gone and you were still fraternizing with the enemy.”

“We were just talking! And really, Masha? How can you blame Laurie for what happened at podium training?”

“Oh, so now you’re on first name terms with them?”

Aliya normally isn’t opposed to Masha's flights of fancy — she welcomes them even, because it relieves some of the monotony of training. But attributing to the American team the same craftiness as the KGB is just grabbing at straws. She’s also aware of how raw Seda still feels about this morning, and thinks Masha is being super unfair. “Podium training for us doesn’t mean anything. We crash, we burn, then come actual competition, we slay. I thought everyone did well today,” Aliya states emphatically.

Seda shoots her a look of immense gratitude.

Masha sighs worriedly. “You’re still new to this, Seda. You don’t know what the Americans are capable of." Directing a covert glance at Aliya, she adds, "Especially Raisman.”

Aliya feels a flash of anger jolt through her. The privilege of speaking bad of Aly Raisman belongs to her, and her  _alone_. Even so, her old protective instincts for Aly — a girl she no longer wishes to associate with — takes her by surprise. She pushes herself up noisily from the bench with a ferocity that makes both Masha and Seda jump. “Look. I haven’t seen Raisman since that day in the cafeteria. I don’t know why she came looking for me. Maybe she got lost and just happened to wander up to the tenth floor and knock on our door.”

Masha looks at Aliya like she’s gone mad.

Aliya barrels on, her irritation building by the second. “She may have hurt me in the past, but she’s not an evil mastermind. Masha, you really should focus your energy on getting ready for qualifications rather than waste it on this meaningless talk. The Americans will do what they do, and it matters not one damn bit. We’re here to represent our country. That is all,” she snaps.

Taken aback by the force of Aliya’s rebuke, Masha mutters under her breath, “At least one of us made sure she won't ruin things for us. Including qualifications.”

Aliya stops in her tracks. “What do you mean?”

Her teammate freezes, realizing she had let slip a piece of information better kept to herself. But it was too late. Aliya narrows her eyes suspiciously, pressing for further explanation.

Throwing her arms up, Masha blurts out, “I lied to her! I told her that you’re seeing someone. Back in Moscow. So that she would leave you alone. Leave _us_ alone.”

The look Aliya Mustafina gives Masha makes her flinch a bit.

“What did she say?” the Russian captain demands in a low, tight voice.

“Nothing. She looked sick, like she ate too much beef pirog,” Masha says in a tone close to a whisper.

Aliya holds herself in, motionless as a stone. That scares her friend even more. Throwing out something, anything, to fill in the black hole of silence, Masha quickly continues, "I asked her if she still loves you. She said yes."

Still nothing. The tension in the room rises. 

“Alka, I’m sorry! I don’t know what made me do it. I was worried about you, and I…” Masha is blubbering, at this point.

A raised hand cuts her short.

Masha braces herself for the forthcoming nuclear explosion, her body pre-emptively leaning as far backwards in her seat as possible. Seda’s eyes go wide, feeling the heat in the room climb precipitously high.

When nothing happens, Masha opens her eyes, not realizing they had squinted shut like those of a rogue scientist backing away from something that’s begun releasing ominous plumes of smoke. The sight that greets her is puzzling, to say the least. Instead of blowing up in anger at Masha’s blatant interference with her personal matters, a small, cryptic smile is fixed on Aliya’s lips — barely visible, yet unmistakably there. Seda and Masha exchange worried looks. 

Aliya strides out of the room, leaving behind her two stunned teammates. She needs time to think. 

Yes, Aly had brazenly assumed she could just waltz back into her life, as if she had never shattered her heart into a million pieces. That is unforgivable. Still, Aliya finds some satisfaction in knowing Aly had experienced a little of the pain of losing someone you love. Even if the boy who has apparently stolen her away is a total lie. It would never come close to the anguish Aly put her through. And it might be a petty, immature way of exacting revenge, a clumsy and unnecessary effort on Masha's part to protect her. But it was something.

Imaginary boy aside, Aliya’s heart skips several beats. 

 _She still loves me._  

* * *

 

Aly sits upright in her bed, listening to the slow, steady breathing of a passed out Madison in the bunk across from hers. Her cotton thermals have proven themselves the most comfortable pyjamas in the world, but right now they’re clinging uncomfortably to her like a stubborn second skin.

It’s late enough that Aly would normally have sunk into a state of the dead, but thoughts of Aliya laughing and texting on her phone to some boy back in Russia ( _she must love being able to express herself freely with him without the maddening language barrier_ ) are making her stomach turn. So Aly does the thing she does when she finds herself stuck in a spiral of hopelessness. She goes looking for someone else she can cheer up.

Putting on her fluffy blue slippers, Aly carefully tip-toes over to the other side of the suite where Simone and Laurie share a room. Reverberating out from it are the faint lyrics of an all-too familiar song — one that had driven her to the brink of insanity because of how often Simone’s phone had it stuck on repeat.

_“You could have been getting down to this…sick…beeaat.”_

Aly firmly knocks on the door, waits for a polite second, then pushes it open. She’s completely unfazed by the sight of Simone’s flailing arms, and Laurie doing what should be impossible: crunking out to a Taylor Swift song. “Guys?”

“Grams! Sorry! We thought we’d turned the music down enough. Did we wake you?” Laurie quickly reaches for the volume control.

Aly reassures her that the volume is fine, she just can’t seem to get to sleep. By how her teammates react, one would be forgiven for thinking Aly had just revealed she was a life form from another planet. It’s  _Aly_. And she just said she couldn’t  _sleep_.

Swifty stops mid-sentence trying to rap about the dirty, dirty cheats of the world. “What’s wrong?” Laurie pulls her teammate down to sit next to her on the bed, while Simone sits on Aly’s other side. Concern is written on both their faces.

“What? Why did you guys stop the music? No, nothing’s wrong! I came over to see…” Aly sheepishly glances sideways at Laurie, “To see if you were going okay. With everything.”

Laurie instantly understands what she’s trying to get at, but waves her hand dismissively. “Oh that. I’m fine! Really.” The way her large eyes dance beneath impossibly long eyelashes, still animated from the half-finished dance off with Simone and genuinely free of any hard feelings, touches Aly to the bone. To have accepted so quickly what for any gymnast would have been the ultimate disappointment can’t have been easy.

“I mean of course I would have wanted things to have gone differently, but at the same time, I’m kind of glad it turned out this way. Now I have one less thing to stress about. And I really, really want you two to take out gold and silver in the finals. Well,” Laurie blushes, “I hope Gabbs has a shot too… but…”

Aly looks down awkwardly at the floor, not quite sure how to respond to that sentiment. Luckily, Laurie moves onto the other perks of not having to fight for all-around Olympic glory. “I also get to eat as much as I want after team finals without having Martha breathing down my neck. Free Macdonald’s here I come, baby!”

Aly laughs softly, shaking her head. “There’s still event finals, Laurie. I’m pretty sure you’ll be in some of them.”

Having landed on her favorite pet topic, Laurie enthusiastically talks food for the next few minutes. Her attempts to get Simone and Aly excited about frango no churrasco  falls on deaf ears. 

“You know the most dangerous thing about having a foodgasm?” Laurie asks.

Simone, now lying on her back, rolls over onto her side. “What?”

“You might end up with a food baby afterwards.”

“Oh my god!”

As Simone cracks up over the lameness of Laurie’s joke, Aly lets out a broad smile — but it’s clear their silliness isn’t having quite the same effect on her as it usually does. Noticing this, Laurie reaches over to wrap an arm around Aly’s shoulders. “Oh, we forgot to tell you — you don't have to worry about Martha being mad at you for missing the briefing last night. We covered for you, girl.”

“Yeah, we told her you had to go and find yourself a smoking hot Russian to make out with.” It’s a stab in the dark, but Simone is confident Aly will take the bait. She has no idea how close to home she hits.

_“What! Simone!!”_

Laurie and Simone exchange excited smiles at the horror on their team leader’s face. A red flush starts spreading from Aly’s neck all the way up to her cheeks. It confirms their suspicions: There was more to Aly’s weird encounter with Aliya Mustafina than she’s letting on. All they have to do is find out  _what_.

A cascade of questions tumble out, each one more probing than the last. And as happens whenever a group of close friends spend an extended time away from home in a foreign land, the deepest of secrets find a way out into the open. What  _really_  happened in the cafeteria the other day? (Aly breaks the backstory to them, partly out of relief that she can finally unload on her friends, but mostly because these two are like hounds on a blood trail. When she admits that yes, she and Aliya ‘were together’, squeals rupture her eardrums.) When did it all start? Did Aly fall first, or the Russian? (Aly realizes she has no idea who fell first - although she’s pretty sure Aliya would swear it was Aly.) Do their coaches know? (Aly blanches at the though of Mihai finding out. Or... good lord.  _Martha._ ) How did things fall apart? (Tears are shed at this point. Mostly Aly’s, though Laurie has to wipe away a few that roll down her own cheeks.) 

Still trying to wrap her head around the revelations and in an effort to lighten the mood, Simone remarks that if she had to choose between spending a wild night with either Zac Efron or Aliya Mustafina, she’d definitely have to pause for at least one minute to make her decision (Zac, duh) — and that’s saying a lot. Laurie follows that up with more intimate questions about… you know, how far have they gone… physically… and how exactly do… well you know, two girls…  _do it_ …?

Unable to take it anymore, Aly puts her arms up in surrender and yelps, “You two! Stop.” Dropping her head dejectedly into her hands, she says in a lowered voice, “She’s moved on.” Hearing her own words out loud, she feels the open wounds left over from last night’s ordeal bleed out a little.

The questions and the ribbing die down immediately.

“Aly, are you sure?" Simone remembers Aly’s tragic state this morning at podium training. It all makes sense now. "How do you know?”

Slow at first to open up, Aly finally tells them about her ill-advised excursion to the Russian quarters the night before. Her teammates listen silently. When Aly is done, emotionally exhausted from having to relive the horror, Simone and Laurie are quiet. They knew better than anyone how disciplined Aly is — rocking up, unannounced, in front of Team Russia’s door late at night is totally out of character for her.

“Well, I don’t know much about relationships,” Laurie eventually starts, but is interrupted by Simone coughing excessively, hand over her mouth. She narrow her eyes at her roommate. “I don’t!”

Simone ‘uh-huhs’ disbelievingly.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Laurie continues after slapping Simone hard on the thigh and being rewarded with a yelp, “my point is — you’ve got to fight for them. When things get hard, that’s when you dig in your heels and kick some ass. How else will Aliya know you’re still crazy about her after all these years?”

A glum look settles on Aly’s face.

“Who’s this boy she’s supposedly dating anyway? I bet he’s not even half the woman you are, Aly.”

Simone faithfully backs Laurie up. “Yeah, he’s not even  _any_  woman.”

Aly flops backwards onto the bed and groans, covering both eyes with her hands. “You didn’t see how she looked at me the other day. Like she was willing me to disappear off the face of the earth. And I can’t even blame her.”

The incurable optimist in Laurie refuses to let her friend give up. “When I've fallen on bars ten times in a row, Maggie always says those are the moments where you've got to pull rank and just keep pushing on." The gymnast pauses for dramatic effect, before continuing with a flourish, "Aliya is your bars.”

"I guess," Aly says slowly. Oddly, Laurie’s teenage column sounding advice makes sense. If gymnastics had taught Aly anything, it was to keep trying, no matter how many times the sport knocked you down . Why would the principle apply any less in love? "But I’m pretty sure she’s made her mind about me. And I know Aliya. Once she makes up her mind about something, nothing and no one can change it. And, lest we forget,” Aly grimaces, “she has a boy.”

Without skipping a beat, Simone quips, "If that boy's last name isn't Efron and first name isn't Zac, then you have nothing to worry about."

Laurie rolls her eyes in exasperation. "You've mentioned his name at least twice every hour since we got here. Please spell 'totally whipped' for me."

"Oh, he can whip me any - " Simone's dreamy sentence is abruptly interrupted when Laurie presses both hands against her ears and starts singing loudly to drown out the end.

The conversation's wildly inappropriate turn finally makes Aly laugh at the pair. Their relentless back-and-forth teasing has a strangely pacifying effect on her. A calm she hasn’t felt for some time takes over, and her mind settles on a definite course of action.

They’re right. She can’t leave Rio without a fight. She's sacrificed way too much to get to her second Olympics  just to give up now.

* * *

 

Early morning, when most Olympians in the Village are still in bed dreaming of gold, is Aly’s favorite time of day. Since arriving in Rio, she had made a habit of waking up an extra hour early to stroll up and down the calming strip of canal just outside their building block. It helps settle her nerves. This particular morning, Aly had woken up two hours early. She has plans to make, prayers to say and most importantly, fate to tempt.

Humming a quiet tune to herself as she rounds a corner, Aly lifts her eyes to scan out her intended path. What she sees makes her stop dead. Her shortened breath produces tiny puffs of mist in the crisp, cold air.

Of course.

With her luck at these Games, of course she had to run smack dab into a giggling Team Russia. Makeup perfectly applied (at seven in the morning?) to accentuate striking cheekbones and gorgeous eyes of varying colors, they look like they’re fresh from taking glamorous selfies in front of the giant Rio Olympic rings just a few hundred feet away. That, or they just stepped off a Chanel runway at the Grand Palais during Paris Fashion Week.

Aly spots Paseka’s brilliant dimpled smile missing from the night before. It flashes freely next to a sight she hasn’t seen in a really long time, one that melts her to the core — Aliya, arms linked with her teammates, an elegant smile emanating the ease of a girl at total peace with the world.

She  _does_  look happy. Strong emotions war inside of Aly. A happy Aliya Mustafina is all she really wants in the end, but she hates how obvious it is that the girl’s happiness has nothing to do with her. In fact, it probably has everything to do  _with_  having nothing to do with her.

Aly has no time to dwell on this; she suddenly realizes Team Russia is heading straight towards her. In less than sixty seconds, their paths will cross and she will once again find herself floundering in a situation of untenable awkwardness.

_Breathe. Think, Aly. Oh shit._

She’s walked too far forwards to duck back behind the corner of the apartment block without being spotted and looking like she’s running scared. Neither does she relish the rudeness of walking past, pretending they don’t exist. Glancing left and right, she curses the fact that there’s only one path available, and that’s to keep going and face Team Russia head on.

It turns out Aly needn’t have expended so much effort frantically processing her dwindling options. The decision had already been made for her approximately fifty seconds ago by a Russian team captain determined to prove a point. Unknown to Aly, Aliya had instructed her dubious teammates to watch her ability to conduct a civilized conversation with the American team captain they had seen approaching in the distance. A conversation that would look no more out of the ordinary than if it had taken place between her and any of the other rival captains, and would finally put to bed Masha’s annoyingly persistent concerns that Aly Raisman was messing with her head.

It takes Aly a while longer to realize Aliya hasn’t just broken away from her party, but is seemingly striding towards her with an iron purpose. Something in the way she’s holding herself is markedly different to how it was in the cafeteria the other day.

Ten seconds.

She definitely looks more… assured.

One second.

“Hello, Raisman.”

Gods, her  _voice_.

“Aliya… Hi.” Aly hopes the heavy pounding just below her ribcage isn’t audible. The inside of her chest tightens, because for some reason Aliya is breaking into a charming smile. The Russian’s dark hair is down and swept to one side, tumbling perfectly and casually down her shoulder. Aly feels her knees start to give way.

“You are well today?”

Aly gawks at her. “Aliya. What are you doing?”

The Russian merely looks back at her expectantly. “I ask if you are well today.”

“No, I know. But I mean…” Aly leans in to whisper the next part, not that she had to, because there’s no one else within hearing range, “why are you talking to me?”

“You not want talk to me?” The question signals wry amusement.

“No, of course not!”

Aliya raises an eyebrow.

“I mean of course I  _want_  to talk to you. It’s just, I thought… I thought you didn’t want to,”  Aly finishes clumsily.

"We have talk now."

Aly stares stupidly back at her, trying to divine her intentions. “What?”

Aliya’s sigh is more intrigued than exasperated. “Raisman, you forget how speak English today? We have talk, to make easy for me, for you. For our teams.”

“What do you mean?”

“We will see each other in competition. In Village. Everywhere. This, we cannot stop. For good of our teams, and for rest of time in Rio, we are normal gymnast who compete with one another. No other business.” Aliya reasons all of this out matter-of-factly and with a logic that’s hard to fault.

Aly’s head is spinning. This new approach, where they act civilized towards each other, is a complete about face from the stone-cold way in which Aliya had made plain to her that they were nothing. She wonders what could have changed her mind in the intervening days. It was entirely possible Paseka had told Aliya everything that had happened last night — in fact, Aly’s sure she has. But why would Aliya knowing all about her embarrassing escapade be just the thing to melt the ice?

Not to say that Aly isn’t relieved. Normalizing relations is better than the prospect of never having anything to do with Aliya again, right? Or is this one of those situations where being relegated to the status of ‘friendly competitor’ signals an end to all hope of ever having more? Is she being _friendly-competitor-zoned?_

“Raisman. You think too much. Smile.”

“Huh?”

Aliya casually gestures towards her gaggle of Russian teammates. “My team watch us. They see no smile, they think something wrong. They think you can make mess my mind.” The corners of Aliya’s mouth turn up into a smirk. “They not know you well. You are too soft.”

“Hey!” Aly takes offence. She can play hard ball if she wants.

“You still not smile.”

Unnatural as it feels, Aly forces one out.

“I say smile, Raisman. Not make face to scare babies.”

Aly pulls another face, this time more exasperated. Aliya bites the bottom of her lip to stifle her laughter. Aly curbs the temptation to counter with the quip that at least she has to  _try_  to scare babies with her face, unlike certain others for whom it occurs naturally. She takes a breath. “Aliya. I appreciate that we can have a… talk like this, but something doesn’t feel right.”

The Russian tilts her head just the right number of degrees to convey disagreement, but lets her continue.

“We haven’t spoken properly at all. Not since… well, not since I just disappeared on you. I haven’t even had a chance to tell you…” Aly’s voice gives out.  _To tell you I’m so, so sorry. To tell you it was the biggest mistake of my life._

The slightest shadow clouds over Aliya’s eyes. “There is nothing to speak, Raisman.”

Aly notices the persistent use of her last name, storing it as another piece of evidence that Aliya is keeping her at a careful distance because there’s still  _something_  there, even as she had deliberately closed the physical distance between them to prove the opposite. She also desperately wants to ask Aliya whether what Paseka said of a boy is true — but she doesn’t want to ruin probably the only chance she’ll ever get to ask for more time. “Please. I just want to be able to talk to you, alone.”

Aliya studies Aly’s face for the longest, drawn out second. Finally, with the slightest hint of reluctance, she agrees. “We meet tonight. There. On grass, next to rings.”

On the grass? Even before the words are out of Aliya’s mouth, Aly can almost taste the sodas they had shared on the expansive grassy lawn of the Olympic Village in London. She swallows, forcing herself to concentrate on the task at hand and not reminisce about the awful aftertaste of Aliya’s favorite drink, or the exhilarating newness of discovering more and more just how beautiful she was.  _Is_.

She’s finally in with a chance to make things right. Maybe not all is lost. It takes every ounce of self-control in her body to not let her excitement show. “I have a meeting with the team after dinner. I think I can sneak off around nine o’ clock. Simone should be able to cover for me,” she says.

Aliya nods. “Nine.”

“I’ll see you then.”

Just as Aliya is about to turn to head back to Team Russia, Aly reaches out to touch her arm. “Spasiba, Aliya.” The brief physical contact sends what feels like literal sparks through both of them, although they would die before ever admitting to it.

A thin smile makes its way to Aliya’s dark red lips. “Your Russian. It go worse to bad.”

“Bad to worse,” Aly gently corrects, and Aliya shrugs nonchalantly. “I don’t know many people back in the States who are fluent in Russian and have the time to help me practise.”

“Then you should not have let me go.” The rare moment of softness in Aliya’s voice mingled with a barely perceptible pain tears at Aly’s heart. A thick, uncomfortable silence follows. The Russian has no idea how those words just set an alarm off in her head.

_“You love Aliya… you let her go.”_

Clearing her throat, Aly points discreetly to where Aliya’s teammates are still standing, half of them pretending to talk amongst themselves, the other half having discarded all sense of decorum, craning their necks to see if World War III has erupted. “I was heading in that direction.”

Aliya considers something for a moment, then decides with characteristic briskness, “You will walk me back. After, you go.”

Aly can’t help but grin at the natural affinity Aliya has with issuing commands. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed that. The Russian looks at her, bold eyes demanding on explanation for the sudden smile.

But Aly has already gone on ahead.

* * *

 

The lone figure silhouetted against the Rio night sky is contemplating a great many things. Waiting with her back to the Olympic rings, her smoky eyes are closed, face upturned towards the stars, heart working deliberately to slow the rising sense of anticipation at what’s to come.

Had it been anyone else, the sheer number of different emotions coursing through her mind would have been too much to handle. But she isn’t just anyone. So she systematically sifts through them, one by one, making a mental note of what she can and can’t let show through in her expressions tonight. Latent anger built up from long ago mixes with a scary kind of hope, mixes with an apprehensive confusion at what she’s possibly getting herself into. Again.

The meeting hadn’t been part of the original plan — granting an audience with Aly Raisman had been a slight misstep brought on by those damn brown puppy eyes.

“Aliya?”

The figure turns, and is met with a sight that would have taken her breath away, if she hadn’t resolved beforehand not to let it. The long hair pulled back into that infamous bun. The natural beauty that seemed to shine effortlessly through flawless, olive skin. She finds herself sweeping her gaze over the girl’s defined cheekbones, her neck… lower. It’s been four years, but she can still visualize every inch of skin beneath the American tracksuit as if it was the first time she breathlessly explored the sculpted body beneath it.

Before Aly can speak again, and before her mind wanders off so far that it threatens to destroy her carefully orchestrated composure, Aliya gives a quiet but insistent order the other girl has no intention of defying:

“Follow me.”


	5. War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before reading on and if you haven’t already, I recommend you read Jen’s First Times - this chapter will make more sense if you do. Chapter 4 was written largely to: It’s Not Funny/The Kiss from A Walk to Remember, Glasgow Love Theme/Portuguese Love Theme from Love Actually, E Più Ti Penso (thanks Anon). For the more angsty parts: Better Than Yourself.

The second thought Aliya Mustafina has the instant Aly Raisman’s lips press against hers, is not to cry out in ecstasy when  _life_  surges through her veins again. (She curses silently, because there’s no other way to describe it.)

 _After_   _all_   _this_   _time_ …

Her first thought had been lost in a white hot explosion of fury, even as she fought to keep her violently trembling hands from grabbing Aly to pull her in closer. Tears well up in her eyes. She angrily fights them back. Curses again, this time audibly. It gets lost against those lips, now dangerously, infuriatingly, wearing her down.

As in all wars between furies of the past and ecstasies of the present, only one victor emerges. 

* * *

 

The lightness of Aliya’s brisk steps across the Olympic Village masks a heart heavy with anxiety. All day, the Russian had meticulously run through in her mind everything that could possibly go wrong. Covering up the distraction of tonight’s rendezvous had been made harder with Masha watching her like a hawk the entire time they trained, ready to pounce on any sign of Aliya’s weakness for the ‘Raismenemy’ - a stupid mashup she had coined that worked annoyingly well in Russian. 

In between sending Masha hostile glares, Aliya also had to reign in the fluttering sensations that rose in her chest whenever she wasn’t practising her routines, the last before qualifications tomorrow. Her thoughts, free from having to be alert to boundary lines or death by a four-inch-wide plank of wood, would drift and eventually land on a warm pair of caramel eyes. Those eyes had made their mark on Aliya long ago. But with each passing day, they had been resurfacing to haunt her with growing frequency. Especially now, when they followed her closely from behind.

Aliya grits her teeth. This was not the Olympics she had envisioned. Rio was meant to be about one thing only - ensuring Team Russia did their country proud. No drama. No nervous breakdowns. No worrying about the Americans (who, barring an apocalypse, were likely to take out the team gold). No distractions. No… American distractions.

_“You’re not worried? About losing focus?”  
_

_“No. I focus better when I’m happy.”_

Aliya blinks back the sudden heat that pricks her eyes at the memory of Ksenia’s cautious questioning after team finals in London. There, in front of a screaming crowd and millions of TV screens, a Russian and an American gymnast had thrown caution to the wind with their unusually heartfelt displays of sportsmanship. The hugs, the shared smiles, the stolen glances they thought no one else could see. That much talked about thumbs-up. 

In London, they couldn’t help but show public glimpses - tiny ones, but glimpses nonetheless - of a secret, perfect world they had created for themselves. In London, they had been happy. Aliya had been happy.

_“What about after? After the Olympics?”_

An ugly blare of what sounds like a hunting horn - some nearby Olympians with are messing around with a vuvuzela - jolts Aliya’s mind firmly back into the present. They’ve just passed the bridge where several nights ago Seda had held, in stunned silence, a tormented and decidedly unhappy team captain in her arms. The sheer humility of being destroyed by mere pieces of American chocolate makes Aliya set her jaw. She forcibly shoves all the memories back into a black box she keeps in the farthest corner of her mind.

This is not London.

She doesn’t exactly know where she’s going, but Aliya has made sure to stride out in front so that the red-flushed cheeks, the shapely jawline and those deep pools of hazel she’s at risk of helplessly drowning in are out of sight. Still, the sound of Aly’s footsteps padding faithfully behind her causes a small smile to creep onto her face before she can stop it. She briefly shuts her eyes and quietly exhales.

If, as Aly hinted earlier, the girl was going to apologize for leaving - no,  _ruining_  - her all those years ago, Aliya would gracefully accept, but not without first giving her hell. She had to know that apologies were way past their expiry date. If no apology came… well, they would just converse as two team captains of two rival gymnastics teams, with two very separate lives to lead.

_And if she says she still loves me…_

Every rational fiber in her body screamed it was best if they had nothing more to do with each other from tonight onwards. Regardless of what Aly’s visit to their room that night had meant.

_And regardless of whether I think I still love her._

Aliya quickens her pace. 

There’s a place up ahead that’s perfect for goodbyes.

* * *

 

Aly has to half walk, half run to keep up with Aliya. They power past at least three different teams of Olympians relaxing and chatting out on the expansive, palm tree-dotted lawn. One group sports the tell-tale black and orange of the Dutch athletes. A girl - Aly can’t quite make out who - waves at her, but they’ve rounded a corner before Aly can respond.

A fair distance from the main Village boulevard, the surroundings grow considerably dimmer. Every second lamp lining the footpath ahead is blown out. The remaining ones give off just enough light to keep them (well, more Aly) from stumbling over the uneven ground. The only sounds now are the slapping of sneakers on pavement, the beating of Aly’s heart in her throat, and the strange ring of uncertainty that has settled uncomfortably between them. Aly starts to think Aliya isn’t going to stop soldiering on until she makes it all the way back to Russia. 

Curiosity is burning a hole through her, but she resists the urge to ask where they’re going. She’s keenly aware her chances of winning Aliya back balance on a knife’s edge. Every move has to be carefully calculated, every word timed and delivered with precision. For now, Aly focuses her attention on the solemn Russian less than two feet in front of her.

It would be easy to mistake Aliya’s walking for dancing. Her hips sway to an internal rhythm, one unique to the few Russians handpicked from millions of hopefuls to undergo elite gymnastics and ballet training at a young age. As if that wasn’t distracting enough, Aly catches Aliya’s scent on a gentle breeze that murmurs through the air. An exhilarating mix of fresh jasmine and rose petals, with subtle hints of melted chocolate and summer nights. 

Achingly, it reminds her of home. Not home in the sense of Boston, Massachusetts, but  _home_ , in that Aliya was the first person who saw her as she really was, and loved her for it. Aly's heart wrenches. Years of hard training to fight for Olympic redemption in Rio pale in comparison to how much is on the line tonight. The more she searches her soul, the more obvious it is the Russian is still etched all over it. In fact, with Aliya right in front of her, Aly struggles to remember how she ever let her go.

“Here.”

Aliya’s voice carries through the dark, rousing Aly out of her somber thoughts.

At first, Aly is confused. Her gaze follows where Aliya is pointing, coming to rest on a square-faced building rising up ominously a short distance away. None of the lights are on. Only when Aly squints does she recognize it as one of the few training gyms in the Village that has proper gymnastics apparatus.

“You want to sit on the grass out… here?”

Straining to see by the moonlight, Aly scans the few tufts of prickly weeds poking out from a decent-sized yard that looks like a barren wasteland. She recalls conversations with Aliya about how much tougher the Russian system is compared to the American one, the numerous times the girl had teased her for being soft. Her competitive spirit stirred despite the seriousness of the situation, Aly isn’t about to give Aliya another excuse to pay her out. Prickly weeds it is.

“No,” Aliya directs firmly. “Inside.”

Aly furrows her brow. “Oh. Um. It kind of looks like it’s closed. Maybe we can find somewhere else close by? I know there’s a nice waterfront that should be just a few minutes away…” Aly trails off when she realizes the only person she’s talking to is herself. The Russian captain is already making her way down a narrow concrete path, marching confidently up to the uninviting gym doors. She makes a sharp left and disappears around the side of building. Aly swallows, then follows her.

Tentatively shuffling her way through the darkness, Aly eventually finds Aliya, hands on her hips. She’s frowning at a huge lock and chain draped securely through the side door, as if she could break them open with the strength of her glare. Aly steps closer, just in time to catch a gleam appear in the girl’s eyes. She watches as Aliya starts calmly fishing for something in her hair.

And because Aly can’t help it, she begins to distractedly study the side of Aliya’s face. The shadows of her gorgeous, lash-fringed eyes, contrasted against the pale contours of her neck and shoulders. The almost sinful curve of her lips as they purse together in a pout. Aly’s breath hitches in her throat. Time changes things, but not this. Never this. She’s…

_Perfect, perfect, perfect._

Pretending not to notice how close Aly is to her, Aliya fixates instead on a metallic object now glinting in between her fingers. Meanwhile, Aly has to tear her gaze away to look down at what it is. She barely makes out the outline of something small, thin and sharp.

Oh.

Initially, Aly’s brain doesn’t register that Aliya is inserting the hair pin she just pulled out of her bun into the lock and is swiftly, expertly, fiddling around with it. The Russian's tongue pokes out the side of her mouth in concentration.

“Aliya? What are you doing?” Aly mutters under her breath. Then, aghast, her hand flies up to cover her mouth. “Oh my god. You’re... you can’t be serious.” Break and enter in consortium with a Russian isn’t exactly something Aly had in mind when she proposed this covert meeting. She had always admired the boldness with which Aliya approached everything, but  _this…_ Nervously, she scans their surroundings, relieved the side of the gym is decently covered by a thick canopy of tree branches. She gawks in fascination and horror as Aliya continues to make quick work of the lock.

Part of Aly expects a member of the press to jump out of the bushes any moment now. Cameras blazing, microphone at the ready.  _Rio Scandal: America’s Alexandra Raisman and Russia’s Aliya Mustafina Caught Redhanded Breaking Into Gym_ , the headlines will blare. They’ll feature a picture of Mihai, disappointed face buried in his hands as they’re led to a police car in handcuffs. Oh god. What if they take a mugshot of her in her Team USA jacket? 

Aly’s blood starts pumping a lot faster. 

“Aliya. I really think we should - ”

“ _Chyort_. Too small.” Aliya looks up from her lock picking (Aly has another brain freeze - Aliya Mustafina,  _lock picking_ ). Seemingly amused at the American’s stricken face, Aliya holds out the ineffective hair pin towards Aly. “Aly, you hold. I try other one.”

The bubble of shock at what’s taking place is pierced only by the sound of Aliya saying her name. It’s the first time in a long time the Russian has addressed her directly, not coldly as ‘Raisman’ or ‘you’, but ‘Aly’. Numbly, Aly takes the hair pin and meets Aliya’s eyes for a split second. “Hey. You said my name.” Aly’s voice sounds strangely disembodied; half of her can’t quite handle the fact that she’s implicating herself in actual criminal activity. The other half is swimming in the strange flood of happiness caused by something as seemingly insignificant as the utterance of her name.

A tiny smile flits across Aliya’s face, but it’s immediately overtaken by a darkening in her expression. Without responding, Aliya turns back towards their illegal undertaking.

Aly debates whether she should grab Aliya and drag her back towards the light - literally and figuratively - before they cross the line into felon territory, but the Russian doesn’t look like she’s giving up any time soon. Not sure if she wants to know, but unable to help herself, Aly lowers her head and whispers, “Where did you even learn how to do this?” The heavy shroud of silence covering their attempted break-in suggests she could have yelled the question, and no one would have heard.

“Tanya teach me.”

Aly doesn’t recognize the name, so Aliya repeats it in a more familiar form: “Tatiana Nabieva. She teach me many things.” As she continues to turn a slightly thicker hairpin in a circular motion, a grin makes its way onto Aliya's face. “Once, we find hotel room of Euro judge who give always Russia very bad score on bars. We wait until she go for lunch.”

The hairpin latches promisingly onto a spoke inside the lock.

“Then we go to room. Very easy to get inside. And we leave nice surprise in… how to say, baggage?”

The mischievous smirk on Aliya’s face when she says ‘nice surprise’ makes Aly shudder.

“Baggage is right. Um, a nice surprise?”

“Da. Big surprise. Eight leg surprise.”

“Oh my god.” A huge shiver runs down Aly from head to toe. “I don’t believe you. Where… and how did you even…?” She  _hates_  spiders. Even the little tiny ones that most people wouldn’t bat an eyelid at.

Despite her expression of disbelief, the Russian’s obvious hint of pride tells Aly they did exactly what she said they did. This isn’t someone who needs to make up stories about how seriously she takes her revenge. It makes Aly wonder how it’s possible she’s been in Rio for this long without yet having been traumatized by surprise encounters with arachnids. Or worse.

Flicking her eyes up momentarily, Aliya gives Aly her signature shrug. “We were young. Do stupid, not nice things. You not do these, Raisman?”

Aly’s blank face is all the answer she needs. The Russian shakes her head, as if in disbelief that she, certified badass Aliya Mustafina, had once fallen for this marshmallow nice girl who would never in a million years think about intentionally hurting a fly, much less anybody. 

An embarrassed laugh escapes Aly. “Now that I think about it, it kind of makes sense. My teammates and I used to talk about how you and Nabieva would be the ones most likely to take over the Russian mafia. Way back, at Worlds.” As Aliya directs an eye roll at her, Aly abruptly realizes that while it's true she would never intentionally hurt anybody… it made the fact that she had hurt Aliya in the worst possible way that much more worse.

Silence takes over again.

It’s only been a minute or so since Aliya’s second attempt to conquer the stubborn lock, but each passing moment feels like an age. It’s not just the press Aly is worried about now. She starts envisioning something worse _-_ Martha. Already, Aly can feel Martha’s crinkly, disapproving eyes sweeping her up and down; her arms outstretched, finger claws digging into the back of her neck.

 _“Aaaly,”_ she’ll drawl in her distinctly Eastern European accent. _“You bring great shame to your team, your countreee. You are team captain agaain because eeeveryone think you set best example for aaall the other girls. What go wrrrong with youu? You have alwaays been veery - ”_

The lock pops open with an audible ‘click’, and the chain slinks to the ground.

_“ … reeesponsible.”_

Aly gulps. Pushing aside her misgivings and the disturbingly real impressions of Martha’s invisible grip, she follows a satisfied Aliya past the yielding door and into the void.

* * *

The emptiness is deafening.

It hits Aliya when she first steps into the dark expanse of the abandoned gym. Her eyes sweep the area, from the rudimentary spectator stands to the high, exposed ceiling beams. It’s not a large gym by any measure, but the moonlight shimmying in through the glass windows gives it a mystic aura that’s eery and calming at the same time.

From the corner of her eye, Aliya watches as it sinks in for Aly that they’re actually inside. Without - gasp - permission. The American’s mouth slowly drops open. “This looks totally different at night. It’s like the perfect place to murder someone and get away with it,” she says with a weak laugh.

Aliya nods grimly, eyes scanning the rest of the gym. She faintly makes out the uneven bars right up towards the back, then the vault table to the right, pushed to one side, and a lone balance beam in the corner nearest to them.

“Easy to hide body,” Aliya replies in a deadpan voice. She takes in a flicker of unease on Aly’s face, and would have smiled more broadly had she known the girl was making a mental note to never joke about murder with a Russian again.

Aliya ambles over to the balance beam, feeling the comforting sensation of mats sinking beneath her weight. Placing two fingers on the beam, she slowly walks them over the familiar leather surface, letting the residue chalk catch on her fingertips. It soothes her. Gymnastics and everything that came with it - the extreme highs and lows, the joy and the pain - had been her world ever since she was little. It was apart of Aliya, and always would be.

Lost in her thoughts, she would have enjoyed the novelty of having an entire gym to herself in the dead of night, had her senses not alerted her to Aly approaching quietly from behind. Without warning, the hushed breadth of the gym feels oddly cramped. A palpable fear starts throbbing in Aliya’s rib cage. She’s scared she might not have the willpower to properly close the chapter on the girl she once shared a heartbeat with. But she has to. She just  _has_  to.

The Russian promptly walks over to the other side of the beam, so that it’s positioned squarely in between her and Aly. It doesn’t make any sense and she doesn’t consciously mean anything by it, but the physical divide sets her mind a little more at ease. Only then does Aliya allow herself, for the first time tonight, to look Aly full in the face.

Her regret is instant.

A long-lost sense of belonging sears Aliya’s heart the second she finds the dependable softness of Aly’s gaze. It’s the fractured, painful brand on her soul that reminds Aliya no matter how many defenses she puts up, the deepest part of her will always belong to Aly Raisman. The other girl’s irises widen; clearly, she felt it too.

_“Aliya…I don’t want to leave that scar on you.”_

_“No, Aly; too late. I already have scar.”_

Too choked up to say anything, Aliya drinks in everything about Aly that four years has changed. She seems stronger. More steady, if that was even possible. She had already been the rock for her team in London. She doesn’t look at all like the girl whose vulnerability had torn a hole in Aliya’s trust. And yet… Aliya fights the pounding impulse to ask Aly why. And  _how_.

_How could you do what you did, knowing what you meant to me?_

She hears Aly let out a slow breath. “Aliya…” the girl begins, but stops, and doesn't speak again for awhile. She doesn’t break her stare, though. Nor can Aliya force herself to look away. The ache in her chest swells until it feels like it might burst. A thousand different emotions fight for control of Aliya’s mind, each one more intense than the last. Desperately, the Russian tells herself to latch onto the anger and discard the rest. She prays Aly doesn’t give her that smile. As easy as a hot knife cutting through butter, that damn smile has been the only thing capable of breaching Aliya’s walls. She hated it, and she loved it.

_Don’t smile. Don’t smile._

_Don’t you dare smile…_

Aly smiles. 

* * *

 

Staring into Aliya’s soul triggers a wave of emotions that makes breathing a chore. With the force of a sledgehammer, it hits Aly that somehow, against astronomical odds, and in a sport where gymnasts over twenty are affectionately called grandmas, they had found their way back to each other. The passage of time had done nothing to dilute the fact that she needs Aliya as much as the air in her lungs.

But Aly also notices the girl’s fierceness seems bottled up more tightly than in London; the barrier she uses to keep people out feels like it’s been raised higher. With a pang, Aly knows she’s probably to blame. And despite her burning desire to find out more about the boy, Aly can’t bring herself to let him into their world just yet. The problem is, she has no idea where else to start.

As Aly casts frantically around for another way to break the silent impasse, an unexpected memory springs to mind. 

_“Well, if you ever need to practise your English, you can talk to me.”_

_“Yes, and I will teach you more Russian. Good Russian.”_

That’s when Aly breaks into the smile Aliya wishes so very bad she hadn’t.

_“Ice.”_

_“Right—yes, this is ice.”  
_

Angling her head to the side, Aly says lightly, “You know, your English is really good now. A million times better than my Russian.”

A long moment passes before the littlest of smiles appears and hovers on Aliya’s lips at the overt flattery. Emboldened, Aly cautiously allows her grin to widen. “If you asked me what the Russian word for ‘ice’ is, I wouldn’t be able to tell you,” she says. A shy blush creeps into her cheeks.

She sees Aliya soften. A bit. It amazes Aly to this day that Aliya had technically been the one to reach out first by articulating that one, tiny word. Then again, it hadn’t all been her.

_“You hug me first.”_

_“Fine. But you kissed me first… on the cheek_ and _on the mouth. It was all you.”_

The Russian waves her hand with a small shrug. “It is okay. You cannot remember what you do not learn.”

“What?” A perplexed frown knits Aly’s eyebrows together. “I learnt it… I remember you teaching me.”

“Yes, I remember also teaching you,” Aliya says evenly. “But not remember you learning.”

It takes Aly a fraction of a second to catch the taunt, to spot the familiar glimmer in Aliya’s eyes. The girl was probably reminiscing Aly’s butchering of the word that sounds a lot like ‘low-te’, but with a very heavy and closed ‘oh’ sound. Aly doesn’t know whether to laugh, or well up in tears because of how long it’s been since she’s seen that look, or give into the intense desire to pull Aliya tightly into her arms and tell her that no one else is capable of teasing her and making her feel like she does right now.

“Mean!” She settles for expressing open indignation. “I didn’t think it was possible, but your insults have improved just as much as your English. More, actually.”

“In…salts?”

Aly smiles, struck by the irony of that particular word being the one Aliya doesn’t know. “Insult. As in a mean thing you say to someone. Someone like oh, I don’t know, me.”

Aliya lifts her chin imposingly, as if handed a compliment. “I make good insult. That is why I am ice queen.” Unlike in London, she knows what that means now.

Impressed, Aly finally lets herself laugh. “Wow. I haven’t heard that in such a long time. I hope you didn’t learn it from anything McKayla said,” she says embarrassedly.

A quick intake of breath is the only response Aly gets. At the mention of the other gymnast’s name, Aliya’s eyes sharpen into flint. The air shifts uneasily. And just like that, a promising opening to a past world in which their souls found each other through strange foreign words, perfect smiles and first times slams resoundingly shut.

Aly suddenly wishes she hadn’t brought McKayla up at all.

* * *

 

_Aly stirs the steaming mug of hot chocolate in front of her, marveling at how thick it is. An eclectic aroma of chilli and cocoa wafts heavenly upwards. She breathes it in deeply, at peace in the moment._

_Seated across from her is McKayla, sipping classily on her espresso macchiato, pinky raised in the air. An empty plate holding the crumbs of what used to be chocolate-drizzled waffles is pushed to the side._

_Neither of them are in gymnast wear, but even if they had been, they probably wouldn’t have been recognized. And that’s exactly how Aly likes it. Since London, there was barely a café or restaurant in the States she could frequent without being stopped for a selfie, or an autograph, or twenty-one questions about what it was like to be an Olympic gold medallist. Because she was genuinely touched by people's appreciation of their achievements, Aly always obliged. But here, in Antwerp, she and McKayla were just two ordinary girls who could gossip and giggle, and come and go as they pleased._

_“Isn’t this café the cutest?” Setting her glass down, McKayla reaches over to inspect the wide-eyed porcelain cats arranged in ascending size on their wood crafted table. Aly nods absentmindedly._

_They take up just half of the four-person booth, since Simone and Kyla are back at the stadium making last minute preparations for the all-around tomorrow. Which is kind of why Aly is more worried about how her friend is doing than porcelain cats._

_On the surface, McKayla doesn’t seem fazed at all that she had missed out on both the 2013 Worlds all-around and floor finals, the latter because of some stupid timing error. The way she’s been babbling on suggests the only things that matter to her are claiming her rightful spot as vault champion and depleting Antwerp of its best Belgium waffles. But knowing McKayla as she does, Aly just wants to be sure._

_“We should probably get some souvenirs while we have the chance. I think Kyla wanted us to pick up some postcards for her.”_

_“Mack… are you sure you’re okay?”_

_McKayla raises her eyebrows, touched by the girl’s concern. Her philosophy has always been to live life to the full, never looking back at the should haves and would haves. Ever since the unsettling Olympic vault final, she had embraced this outlook with even more ferocity than before._

_Flashing Aly a reassuring smile, McKayla gives her friend’s hand a quick squeeze. “I’m fine, Als. I’m actually really excited for Simone and Ky. They have a good shot at taking out the gold and silver.”_ _Chewing on her lip, the girl continues, “ The only real competition they have is Mustafina. We were training together in the hall the other day, and it turns out the ice queen has managed to find floor music that’s even more ice queen-y than last year’s - ” Abruptly, McKayla stops mid-sentence. She’s always spoken without filters, but the troubled look on Aly’s face makes her regret shooting off just then._ _It also makes McKayla realize there_ is _one ‘should have’ that’s been hanging over her for some time._

 _Guiltily, she thinks back to the strange phone call she should have, but hasn’t told Aly about yet. She’s told herself many times she’s just waiting for the right moment, but deep down Mckayla knows it’s because she’s fearful of how Aly might react. And she has reason to be. She’s never seen Aly more tormented, almost hysterical, than when she talked about the Russian. It’s probably why she hasn’t done so in a long while._ _Now, though, it seems fate, or rather her lack of filters, has thrown her an opportunity to come clean._

_“Have you talked to her?” McKayla finally asks._

_Aly avoids her friend's pointed look. “No, I haven’t.”_

_“Are you going to?”_

_There’s no answer as Aly looks down at her half-finished drink._

_McKayla shifts uncomfortably in her seat. It looks like she’s struggling to get something out, but doesn’t know how to. “Aly. You know, if you wanted to, I know where she - ”_

_“Mack, can we please talk about something else? I can’t…” Aly’s voice breaks, and she has to stop before the carefully hidden memories become sharp blades, then tear-stained cheeks and a freshly bled heart.  She knows McKayla means well. But it’s already been over a year, and still the pain feels embedded in her bones. She had come to Antwerp, knowing Aliya would be here too, but dismally aware that the Russian still wouldn’t be any closer than she had been when she was an ocean away._ _The only hope she has of moving on with her life - and letting Aliya move on with hers - is if she shuts out everything that happened in London. In all honesty, she doesn’t even know if that will work._

_“I know how much she meant to you. And I know how much you meant to her. Listen - ”_

_“McKayla. Please.”_

_It’s rare for Aly to snap, so McKayla goes quiet. Picking up her espresso, she stares out the frosted window, searching for couples wearing funny matching outfits (it seems to be a thing in Antwerp) so she can re-direct the conversation to a happier place._

_Now is not the right moment._

* * *

Everything seems to unravel at the deadly speed of light.

“Maroonee… she never tell you I call?” Aliya doesn’t camouflage the quivering anger bleeding through her words.

Aly shakes her head slowly, confused, trying to jog her memory. “No, she didn’t say anything… or I don’t know. Maybe she did? Or tried to. It doesn't matter,” Aly stammers, struggling to project her voice. “She has nothing to do with this. Us. It was all my fault. I couldn’t - ”

“It does not matter?” Aliya is incredulous. The quickening, bruising pulse against her ribs grows. She feels her composure slip dangerously away. In one final attempt to calm herself, Aliya closes her eyes. But all she sees is red. Red, and those Instagram posts that made her want to stick knives into a certain someone, the publicly intimate displays of ‘friendship’, the constant fawning over each other… Aliya had always suspected McKayla had feelings for Aly, even felt confident enough to joke about it at one point, but this just confirms it. What kills her is not knowing whether those feelings were reciprocated.

Scarcely able to contain her resentment ( _not_  jealousy - she refuses to believe it’s possible to still be jealous after all these years), Aliya shoots Aly a biting glare. “She not tell you because she want you, Raisman.”

The animosity in her statement takes Aly aback. It hurts, because she feels the girl’s pain as sharply as if it were her own. That otherworldly connection where she feels everything Aliya feels is as alive as it ever was. It’s god-awful and breathtaking and confusing all at once.

“No, Mack’s not like that. And she’s not… I mean she doesn’t like…” Aly means to say ‘girls’, but she doesn’t. If she were to be totally honest, she had always known how McKayla had felt about her - even with the revolving door of boys she seemed to keep on her watch. What had preserved their friendship all these years was the unspoken understanding between them that they would never be anything more.

None of that matters to Aliya, who hates with her whole being that Aly is defending the girl.

“It was me, Aliya. I couldn’t keep going. I couldn’t keep us going.” Aly does her best to curb the tremors in her voice, but the sight of Aliya looking like she loathes that she ever had anything to do with her rips at her. “I was broken. Being away from you broke me. I hated how I was never with you when you needed me. I thought… I thought I was doing the right thing, by staying away.” Aly doesn’t mean for it to sound like an excuse, but the instant she says it, she knows that’s exactly what it seems to be.

Maybe it  _was_  an excuse.

“You not think it break me also? How can treat me like I am not…  _sushchestvovat_ …  _exist…_ be right thing? How you do this to me?” The only thing saving Aly from the fullest expression of Aliya’s rage is the fact that the Russian has to frustratingly channel it through the prism of a foreign language.

Aly looks pleadingly at Aliya, chest tightly constricted, knowing she doesn’t deserve forgiveness, but wanting with every last breath in her body to somehow make up for all the damage she’s done.

“Aliya… I’m sorry.” Tears brim in Aly’s eyes, but she forces them back, not wanting to seem like she’s making this about herself. “I should have tried harder to make it work. Or at least called you back, to explain myself. I shouldn’t have disappeared on you. You deserved better. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The girl’s apologies only make a trembling Aliya want to scream out in anger. No, it’s  _beyond_  anger. The Russian doesn’t know what’s worse: the fact that she was forced to put her pride aside and trust the Maroney girl; the fact that she was stupid enough to tell the girl to take care of Aly (it would have been less foolish handing an arsonist a flame torch and her apartment keys); or the fact that Aly had chosen to walk away. And  _stayed_  away. As if Aliya had been nothing but a good distraction in London, to be discarded after Aly was done with her. Any plans to gracefully accept the girl’s apologies evaporate.

“Why not be with Maroonee? She is in America. Or because not in same city, too hard for you also?”

Aliya's words cut Aly to the bone. And against her better judgment, Aly lashes out in response. She knows she shouldn’t have. After all, her weakness, her failure to keep it together, is the reason why broken shards of themselves lie strewn all over the floor. Does she even have the right to hurt? Yet those words had violently pushed to the surface a reality buried deep inside her; that Aliya isn’t the only one who’s been carrying around a scar that will probably never heal.

“So what if it was hard? Obviously you needed someone closer to home too. You can’t get much closer than a boy in Moscow!”

Aliya’s hardened eyes blaze. A string of impassioned Russian - Aly only recognizes the few curse words she knows - escapes with scathing force. But Aly ploughs on uncontrollably, tearfully, as images of Aliya with a boy,  _Aliya, giving herself to someone that’s not her_ , rampage mercilessly through her mind. “Maria told me. The other night, when I came looking for you. Is it true? Have you found someone else?” The words taste like acid in her mouth, and Aly barely gets them out without feeling like she’s going to be sick. She’s never been more scared of anything than the answer she feels she’s going to get.

Aliya looks at Aly like she’s willing her to explode into flames. “How can you ask this?” What right does the girl have to ask her  _anything_?

“Because I want you to know that after you, I couldn’t even look at anyone else. No one came close. You ruined me for every other person on earth. I never for a second believed I would ever find someone as perfect as you. Four years, and I couldn’t bear the thought of belonging to anyone else. I still can’t.” 

As the hard truth comes tumbling out of her, Aly’s hand unconsciously moves upwards, sliding emphatically over her forearm. A flash of anguish sweeps over Aliya as she follows the movement with her eyes, realizing the girl is tracing over the now-invisible pen marks she had once made on herself, four years ago.

_“I hope it is true.”_

_Yours._

“No. You not get to say this.” Aliya shakes visibly with anger. “If true, you will not do what you do to me, Raisman.”

“I didn’t know what else to do, Aliya.” Aly cuts her off, voice tremoring from a spiraling sense of frustration with herself, and with the universe, for making them fall so hard for each other. “I had no idea how or when we could ever be together again. It wasn’t possible for me to move to Russia, and you weren’t coming to me.”

“You not know that. I would doing everything for you - ”

“Really? You really would have given up everything and moved to the States for me?” Aly regrets the ringing skepticism in her own voice, but wasn’t this the crux of their heartbreak? Everything had been left up in the air after London. They had gone their separate ways, trying like crazy to cling onto something no longer protected by the intimate bounds of the Olympics. Something that needed to survive once it was thrust out into the real world, where destructive forces - those of an unbearable time difference, or the frustrating inability to reach out and touch each other, to see and feel, and cry and laugh with each other when others could - were given free reign to wear and tear them down. To cruelly bend them, until they broke.

Furious at what seems like Aly doubting her sincerity, Aliya wants to retaliate, even though a tiny part of her knows the American isn’t completely insane to question whether pure strength of will would have been enough to keep what they had going.

But it’s not fair. She knows she had been ready to fight for Aly, even if she can’t put into precise terms what that would have meant. She refuses to believe the only solution had been to turn their backs on what they both knew they would never again find in this lifetime.

Eyes now burning more with misery than anger, Aliya draws herself up to her full height. “And this what I want you to know. Every day I wake, crying, because I must live it without you. I fight with coaches, friends, my family because they see all this… but always I say I am good, even when I am not. At night I crying,” and she fights hard to finish the sentence without having tears strip away what little scrap of pride she has left, “because I know in the tomorrow I must live again. With no you.” Her voice drops to barely above a whisper. “There is word for this.  _Predatel'stvo_.” The last word is said in absolute agony, the Russian clenching her fist over her heart as if something is splitting it open.

_Betrayal._

“You not break only heart. You break mind. My  _dushá_ …  _soul_. You break everything that is me.” In one final choked breath, as if it was the absolute worst part of the terrible fate Aly had forced onto her, Aliya pushes out, “I let  _American_ break me.”

Neither of them can fathom why in this deserted gym, it feels like they’re drowning. Both just trying to keep their heads above a scorching sea of hurt, a gaping wound torn right through what had once felt beautifully invincible.

Aly feels a tiredness knitting through every muscle in her body, the magnitude of how much she had hurt the girl sinking in. She’s exhausted beyond measure, from all the fighting and the oppressiveness of a world in which Aliya might never trust her again. She wishes Aliya could somehow become unbroken, for them to travel back to a time when things weren't shattered beyond any hope of repair.

“Aliya, please just…” Without thinking, Aly wordlessly reaches out a hand, as if one touch might be the very thing to spark the beginning of a light at the end of dark, long tunnel.

“Nyet.  _Ne trogayte menya_.”

Aly snatches her hand back, stung by the wounded force of Aliya’s words. She stares helplessly at the girl she wants so badly to take into her arms, but can’t.

After what seems like forever, Aly finally probes in a small, defeated voice, “Does he… make you happy?” A heavy dread weighs on her. She knows she can make Aliya happy, more than this stupid boy ever could. More than anyone else in the world could. But if Aliya had already closed the door and moved on, the unselfish part of Aly that just wants the best for the Russian needs to know she’s at least with someone who can give her the bare minimum she deserves.

When Aliya uncomfortably diverts her stare elsewhere, Aly repeats the question, a little more firmly. The longer Aliya avoids the question, the more Aly realizes she probably doesn’t want to hear the answer.

Still nothing. Aly’s heart sinks.

This can’t be how it ends.  _It can’t._

As if reading her mind, Aliya lifts her now tear-filled eyes to look at her, causing a shot of molten lava to race through Aly’s veins.

That look. They really should have seen it coming. Because in the end, that one look is all it takes. That’s all it’s ever taken.

Acting on its own freewill, the deepest part of Aliya Mustafina that will always belong to Aly Raisman careens across the space that separates them, in a last, desperate search for its counterpart. Disregarding everything telling them that too much damage has been done for it to even be possible, the parts of their souls that never really left London violently throw off the constraints of logic and sense to meet each other in the middle, in one perfect, invisible collision. It electrifies the space between them, weakens them both to the point where neither feel like they have it in them to draw breath anymore. All they’re drawing on is the hope that  _this_ reality, the one in which separation from each other doesn’t exist, is the one that’s most real.

Trembling, Aly finds herself leaning across the balance beam towards Aliya, pulled forward by the almost physical force of the collision. The girl stays deadly still, as if unmoved by Aly’s closing proximity. 

But her ragged breathing tells a different story. Aly isn’t thinking, only feeling, that what she’s about to do next is exactly what she needs to keep her heart beating, to keep on surviving. She needs Aliya, and despite everything that’s happened, she knows with every fiber in her being that Aliya needs her too.

With tears glistening on her eyelashes, Aly tilts her head and ever so slowly, deliberately, presses her lips to Aliya’s.

* * *

 

The instant the other girl reclaims her with a breathless kiss, an explosion of white erupts in Aliya’s mind. It’s an unrestrained fury, hatred almost, at the injustice of Aly Raisman obliterating her years of mental discipline in the space of a single heartbeat.

But… oh god. Then comes the euphoria. It's like life itself, infiltrating and flooding her every sense, painfully reminding Aliya of what she’s been deprived of all these years. She despises it, and so desperately needs more of it.

Everything about the sensation of Aly’s lips sealed against hers feels searingly familiar,  _too_  familiar, that tears spring to her eyes. The Russian valiantly fights them down with every ounce of willpower she has left, but they start falling rebelliously down her face anyway. Down, until their saltiness mingles with the sweet, burning heat of their first kiss in what feels like an eternity.

_“Today I think; when I see you again, kiss from me will be very bad.”_

_“You couldn’t kiss badly if you tried.”  
_

Blood pounding in her ears, Aliya instinctively parts her lips as Aly’s tongue begs entrance, hesitantly at first but then with a growing sense of urgency. The kiss deepens quickly. Aliya swears. The more of Aly she tastes, the more she feels her anger melting into pure desire. Both their heartbeats race faster and faster, until the beats join together in one continuous stream, thunderously creating its own dimension of reality out of the scant air still suspended between them.

_“You shouldn’t have kissed me…”_

_“…now I want to kiss you, so badly…”_

Aliya feels her hands move frantically upwards to pull Aly in closer, a conflicting mix of panic and craving coursing through her body. She’s only barely able to stop her fingers from reacquainting themselves with the intoxicating warmth of Aly’s skin, because a faint voice in the back of her mind whispers that there’s a reason she had made sure to put a physical divide between them. As their desire intensifies and continues to drag Aliya hopelessly down, the voice grows stronger, shouting a warning that the fire blazing in between her and Aly isn’t the kind that warms – it’s the kind that burns and destroys everything in its path.

She can’t do this to herself again. She just can’t.

Before her mind realizes what her body is doing, Aliya’s eyes fly open - she doesn’t even remember closing them - and she forcibly breaks off the kiss. Surprising even herself, she pushes Aly roughly away, ignoring the flash of regret that touches her the second she does.

Aliya is breathing hard, face hot with anger, but mostly fear. So many different parts of her are warring amongst themselves that she can hardly pick out a single coherent thought. Except for one.

“You should not have kissed me." 

* * *

 

It’s those same words, uttered in a universe very different to the one in London, that shakes Aly to her core. There’s nothing to follow them, no statement, no smart quip to say Aliya didn’t mean exactly what she said.

“Aliya.” Lips tingling and still trying to catch her breath, Aly steps forward again, but this time Aliya moves warily back. 

“No. You don’t know…” Aliya chokes up, suddenly hating herself for letting her instincts overtake her better senses. What was broken inside her now feels even more so. She’s a total mess, her faith in her ability to do what’s best for herself (that is,  _stay away from Aly Raisman_ ) completely ruined because of that damn unscripted kiss.

“I don’t know what?” Aly’s head is still spinning from the intense aftertaste of the last few moments, not wanting the brief kindling of hope inside her to die.

Reinforcing her voice with some of the anger that had temporarily departed, Aliya retorts, “You not know how much you hurt me. You cannot know. Not when after you leave me. You seem more happy. Always smiling. Always taking photo with everyone. Always go on stupid, American TV shows…”

Aliya is just rediscovering the energy of her rage when she notices Aly produce a worn-out piece of paper from her back pocket. For some reason the girl is staring at Aliya, allowing her to run her anger out. Not trying to explain that it was all expected of her, the ridiculous amount of compulsory public appearances that come with being one of the best known gymnasts in the United States. That it had hurt her too, to have to project a carefree, happy Aly to the rest of the world when really, all she wanted to do was curl up in a pathetic little ball and grieve over how Aliya wasn’t part of it anymore.

“Here. I kept this,” the American says quietly.

_“I made a list… like a to-do list, for the things I think I need to do so I don’t fall apart when you’re not with me anymore.”_

It dawns on Aliya slowly, the familiar loopy writing, the odd way the paper is folded, the bullet points marked with the letters she remembers studying on a copy of her own until it felt like she would wear the paper through.

“I failed to do everything on this list. Actually, I ended up doing the exact opposite.” A small, sad smile spreads over Aly’s face as she unfolds it carefully. 

“I not keep mine. It is useless.”

Aly ignores the stab at her heart from the forced dismissiveness in Aliya’s tone. “Aliya, please. There’s something I have to show you.”

On the back of the paper is something written underneath the original list. It looks like it’s been freshly added, the numerous crossings-out and long sentences scrawled in much darker ink than the rest.

And is that… Cyrillic? Aliya blinks. It can't be.

Gripping the piece of paper tightly, Aly's stress levels start to rise precipitously. But she’s made up her mind to read out loud and clear everything that’s written on it, if Aliya will let her. Inhaling deeply to calm her nerves, she begins.

And once again Aliya’s breath starts to fail her, because unbelievably, the girl is reading out loud in her own language. It’s hesitant, terrible, adorable, stuttering Russian, but Russian nonetheless.

“Aliya,

I realizes when I write this list, I making a big mistakes. When writing I will not thinking of you so much, that is what I do. I thinking of you. All my days. When writing I will not cry when you leave, I cries. Every day, until no more tears left indoors of me to cry. When writing I will not thinking of you every time I eat chocolate, I stop eating chocolate. But not stop to buying chocolate. Just so I can look at it, and thinking of you more.”

Aly pauses, her eyes sweeping anxiously over Aliya’s face to gauge if her stumbling and stammering is making any sense at all, but she can’t get a read on the girl’s fixed gaze. She swallows hard, and continues.

“I realizes everything I write on this list, I do the… the reversal. I fail to do it. So here is a new list I write.

I will not fight to go to the 2016 Rio Olympians.

I will not kiss you again, to reminding you how perfection you are to me, and how you can never being bad at it.

I will not telling you in my awful Russian that I… I love you.”

For the longest time, Aliya just stares at Aly, her body frozen into the same position for the entirety of Aly’s speech.

And then she starts laughing, slowly at first. It gradually swells into a kind of helpless, half-joyous, half-crying laugh. Aliya’s emotions start waging war inside her again, only this time the side telling her that Aly Raisman is  _still worth fighting for_  is much stronger. The girl’s Russian is just so bad. So bad, that it makes Aliya want to throw aside her senses and grab Aly and kiss her until their lips are bruised and they both run out of breath again.

Trying to reign in her wildly beating heart, Aly says in English and a faint voice, “There’s just one thing on that list I haven’t… not done.”

The Russian suddenly grows quiet.

_“You learn the words I mark on dictionary?”_

_“Yep. I know how to say it now… But of course, I can only say it in person.”_

“Aliya…”

The breathless way Aly says her name sends a thousand shivers over Aliya’s skin. She isn’t breathing anymore; she can’t breathe, not if Aly is about to say what she thinks she is. At this very moment, the loud, exhausting, tireless war that has been raging inside Aliya all night is silenced with an abrupt ceasefire, because all she wants to hear and feel is Aly, nothing else.

Aly's grave eyes lock onto Aliya’s, a profound longing pooling in their depths.

These words. They have been trapped inside of her, all these years for too long. Far too long.

“Ya tebya lyublyu.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All credit for the wonderful backstory goes to Jen, author of First Times.  
> And Happy Birthday McKayla Maroney!


	6. Impossible (Part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: My deepest apologies for the huge wait. Here’s Part I of the latest and longest ST chapter (it’s pretty much the equivalent of two chapters). I recently lost someone very close to me and have been going through the motions these past few weeks. It made finishing this chapter a real struggle, but I hope it doesn’t disappoint. I will post Part II within a couple hours. Thank you Anons and everyone for all your messages, it’s really amazing to feel the love from such kind and supportive readers. I have every intention of finishing ST :) As always, any thoughts, feels, songs or suggestions would be really appreciated (I take asks at gymwrites.tumblr.com). Love, Kai.

The second thought Aly Raisman has when the back and forth swinging of the gym door comes to a creaking halt... isn’t really a thought. It’s not quite a feeling, either. Rather, it’s the scary absence of both thought and feeling. A numbness that steals its way into the dull hollowness left by a sudden, ripping away of hope.

Her thought preceding this not-quite-thought-nor-feeling was just as dismal.

_That’s that then._

Aly keeps still. Doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t breathe. As if staving off the next intake of air might somehow delay the fact that she’s standing in the dead quiet of a ghostly gym. Very much alone. She closes her eyes, feeling the blood in her veins slow to an uncomfortable, sluggish pace.

Thinking there was a way back to London had been about as crazy as thinking billions of years could be undone and the universe folded back into a single, infinite point.

The realization that some things when lost, are lost forever, seizes Aly with a suffocating force. She drops the now meaningless piece of paper to the floor and buries her face into her hands, taking in sobbing gulps of air. Each new ragged breath cuts her deep, each sharp as an obsidian blade’s edge.

None so sharp as the parting words the Russian had left her before walking out, without a single glance back.

* * *

"Ya tebya lyublyu.”

Aliya trembles, hardly believing what she just heard. A confusing cocktail of dismay and joy explodes somewhere deep inside of her. She’s waited for those words for so damn long, dreamt about them so often, part of her thinks they’ve been cruelly conjured up by her imagination.

Yet there she is. Aly Raisman, holding out her heart towards Aliya, shining hazel eyes creased with uncertainty.

The Russian directs her entire willpower towards not throwing herself at Aly, partly in a wild rage -  _why did she wait until freaking Rio to do this to me?!_  - and partly in pure, unadulterated longing. Her hand automatically comes up to press down on the left side of her chest, where a throbbing pain is growing.

Gesturing towards the crumpled list still clutched in Aly’s nervous fingers, Aliya lets out in a controlled breath, “You. Russian.” The two words barely form a sentence, but it’s the best she can do with this startling turn of events.

Aly quickly lowers her eyes, her already flushed cheeks deepening to a dark wine red. She awkwardly scuffs her shoe on the gym mat.

“I know. I know it was really bad.”

“Aly...” The utter self-consciousness in the girl’s tone makes Aliya desperately want to draw closer and grab Aly’s hand and press it to her lips and tell her it was the most adorable, breathtaking thing ever. But the stubborn, rational streak in her forbids it.

“I meant what I said, Aliya,” Aly’s voice trembles. “In Russian. In English. I’ll learn to say it in every other language if I have to. I would say it in Hebrew, but that might be just as bad as because I’m really rusty. Although to be honest, it’s probably impossible for anything to be worse than my Russian.” Her words, not coming out as articulately as she wants them to, dies on her lips.

The American’s signature rambling is every bit endearing as it is distressing for Aliya. She waits, unmoving as a statue, pulse racing with the frightening velocity of a runaway freight train.

“What I mean is...” Aly swallows down a lump in her throat, “I love you. In every language. In every way.” The slow, fiery intensity with which Aly speaks makes Aliya’s heart swell up to fill her entire ribcage.

 _Damn you, damn you, Raisman._ Unable to speak, the Russian lets out a sound that’s halfway between a cry and a soft whimper.

“Would you give me another chance, Aliya? Will you... have me?”

The air around Aliya thickens to a muddy hue.

 _Yes. Yes times a million! You’re mine. You’ve_ always _been mine._

They’re the answers that sit, right there on the tip of Aliya’s tongue, begging to jump off of it. They’ve been there ever since she first caught the strangely captivating way the girl laughed with her eyes, the easy kindness she wore on her sleeve and charmed everyone with, without even knowing it. How could  _not_  being with Aly ever be right? It’s true; Aliya had learnt to live the last four years without her. There started to be days where she wouldn’t hate the sun for peeking up over the horizon. At times, it even felt like she was beginning to enjoy herself again.

But by every measure that mattered, she hadn’t really  _lived_. Life passed her by without Aly searching her out like she was the only star in the sky. It didn’t count when she wasn’t wrapped in Aly’s arms, an impenetrable shield against everyone who ever judged Aliya and tried to tear her down. Her days dragged on without Aly’s kisses, especially the ones that felt like small drops of warm lava blazing a trail down her body... Shivering, Aliya swallows back tears for the hundredth time tonight.

The longer she delays her response, the more her resolve starts to soften. She watches anxiously as Aly takes a cautious step forward, the girl’s gaze unfaltering and deliberately reassuring, as if wary that Aliya might bolt at any second. Time stops being measured in minutes, instead surging forward in furious heartbeats and terse breaths.

Aly takes another step. Then another. The closer Aliya lets her get, the more she can detect faint stirrings of hope in the American. 

 _Hope._ Aliya involuntarily tenses up. A chill flashes through her, crawling up her skin and causing the hairs on her neck to stand on end.

Her naturally suspicious nature had always treated hope as a dangerous thing to hold onto - but it wasn’t until Aly cut her off four years ago that she was completely vindicated for doing so. Never in Aliya’s life had she been raised so high, only to be brought crashing back down by a dizzying disappointment that left her sick to the core.

Aliya is suddenly, jarringly reminded that little has changed. Some supernatural force would always draw Aly and her together. It was straight out of one of her favorite stories she had read as a child, about a couple Fate had mischievously joined together with an invisible red string. It didn’t matter where on earth they were born and died; they would always find each other again and again, in a never-ending cycle of reincarnations. 

In this life, though, she and Aly couldn’t keep meeting every four years, falling for each other again every four years, and breaking each other into pieces every four years. Sooner or later, they had to confront the fact that they were both tied to their home countries in ways they couldn’t or wouldn’t change.

What  _had_  changed was that they weren’t wide-eyed teenagers chasing their Olympic dreams for the first time anymore; the same ones who didn’t think through what would happen once the Games concluded. Aliya knew it all too well. If they didn’t get off this collision course, there would eventually be nothing left of them to break.

“Aliya.”

The nearness of Aly’s voice exhaling her name snaps Aliya back to attention. Only two or three tiny steps separate them.

_Shit._

Her eyes still anchored on the girl’s perfectly framed face, Aliya takes in a deep breath. As she does, her heart sinks. “Raisman, we cannot.” Her voice catching in her throat, Aliya forces it out more vehemently. “I... cannot.”

Aliya watches Aly’s brown orbs cloud over in confusion, then comprehension, and finally hurt. The Russian wrenches her gaze away. She wishes things were different, wishes her common sense and the fear and the memories and the pain weren’t so ingrained in her.

Stumbling backwards, barely smothering the protesting parts of her begging she give into her raw emotions just one goddamn time, Aliya breaks the spell of the moment. “Take care yourself. Please.” Her last words come out colder than intended. They’re brashly polite, to the point of clinical. They had to be, if she was going to do this with any sort of decisiveness. Before Aly can say anything to change her mind, Aliya abruptly wheels around and powers away from the girl she can have, but never hold.

Only when her back is safely turned, when she’s forced her way out of the building and is blindly careening down the concrete footpath under a dark blanket of stars, does Aliya allow the hot tears to rush down her face.

* * *

 

“You did it. You did it, Aly!”

Mihai’s usual contained self is gone, replaced by an unrecognizably ecstatic coach jumping up and down on the lime green carpet. Aly watches, a small grin curled at one corner of her mouth as he puts on a very public display of fist pumps and wild arm waving to celebrate her second chance at an all-around Olympic medal.

Soon, she finds herself wrapped in one of his giant bear hugs, the kind that sweeps her off the ground and constricts her breathing for a number of seconds. As soon as Mihai sets her down, she’s immediately swamped by her teammates; Simone, tears gathering at the edges of her eyes at being one step closer to Olympic hardware; Laurie, giving everyone high fives, still in shock over how the crowd - most of them not even American - had chanted her name the moment she stepped into the stadium; Madison, her enigmatic smile expressing tempered delight at finishing with the highest qualifying score on bars.

And Gabby.

As Mihai enthusiastically lifts her arm up in a gladiator salute towards the cheering USA section of the stands, Aly catches Gabby’s eye over his shoulder. The 2012 all-around champion flashes her a big smile. The sparkle in her look conveys something that sets Aly’s mind a little more at ease:  _Enjoy this moment. You deserve it._

Aly returns the smile faintly, a hint of gratitude and relief spreading through her. All week, she had both anticipated and dreaded this moment.

Qualifications had turned out as good as Team USA could have hoped. Still, at the back of Aly’s mind lurked the unpleasant prospect that either she or Gabby would have to swallow the bitter pill of missing out on a spot. And now, she had to deal with being proud enough of her achievement so as not to seem annoyingly modest, but not so proud as to seem completely insensitive to how awful Gabby must be feeling.

Extracting herself from the flurried mess of hugs and congratulations, she makes her way over to Gabby, who has discreetly gone to the side and is bent over removing tape from her ankles.

“Gabby, I...” Aly starts but stops, not really sure how to express the jumbled feelings tumbling around inside. Straightening up, her teammate turns to face her. As soon as she catches the turmoil on Aly’s face, Gabby reaches out and pulls her in for a heartfelt hug.

“Als, I know. I know what you’ve been worrying about. And I’m telling you now, don’t. I’m happy for you.” Gabby emphasizes the next word by giving her teammate a light squeeze on the shoulder, “Really. I know you would be just as happy for me if - well, if things had turned out differently.”

Aly winces. Clasping Gabby’s hand with her own, she says with a fierce certainty, "It could have just as easily been you. It was all luck.”

The girl lets out a sad, gentle laugh. “Hey. You deserve it. You were amazing today. There’s no luck in this. And there won’t be when you and Simone wipe the floor with everyone else at the final.”

A tiny smile finally breaks on Aly’s face, but she can’t shake off how unfair it is. Gabby had come in as the third greatest gymnast in the world, and she wasn’t going to get her shot at defending her Olympic title. “How... how are you feeling?”

Gabby looks down momentarily, spreading her fingers and inspecting each one distractedly. “I’m okay, I think. Well, I will be.” Glancing up, she lets a bit of the regret holing up inside trickle through in her features. “I really wanted this. But then, we all did,” Gabby says in a resigned voice. Without warning, she shifts the direction of the conversation. “How are you feeling?”

The careful, searching tone in her voice lets Aly know she’s not just asking about the upcoming team and all-around competitions. Thrown by the question, Aly gives a near imperceptible shake of the head, her tongue feeling like it’s just become glued to the roof of her mouth.

_‘Raisman, we cannot. I... cannot.’_

Seeing the hidden pain surface in her friend’s eyes, Gabby wordlessly nods in sympathy. The girls share a quiet moment together, bittersweet that the incredible feat of making back to back Olympic teams had to come with such mixed emotions. Aly wants to express how grateful she is that Gabby’s there with her - out of everyone, she knew most why getting to Rio had meant so much - but they get hurriedly herded back towards the rest of the group.

Martha wants to debrief them right away.

It didn’t matter that they had finished almost a record-breaking ten points ahead of the next best team - China - and in all likelihood would take out the team gold even with several falls. There would be no time for resting on their laurels. A no-nonsense post-qualifications meeting would take place in one of the small backrooms. Martha would go over every tiny detail that went wrong (not much, really, but she was sure to find something), and they would get the same pep-talk they always did: You girls have done this a million times. Just treat the next competition as you would any other training session.

Left unsaid was that the next competition will make or break the dreams of an entire nation, as well as the one you’ve had since you were five years old.

As Team USA prepares to march out of the stadium in formation, Aly can’t help wondering if Aliya had caught their qualifying round on one of the live cable channels. She wonders what she thinks of the fact that they’ll be competing in the all-around together. Most of all, she wonders if Aliya had noticed her not entirely coincidental choice of floor music...

Then she remembers the loud, scraping noises the gym door had made when Aliya stormed past it, as if she couldn’t bear to be with Aly for one more second. She recalls the way Aliya had told her to ‘take care’, the way you tell a distant second cousin you don’t remember the name of to take care as they board a plane to god knows where, because really, who cares?

The smile Aly has from seeing her teammates chatter excitedly about how they had totally dominated qualifications falls from her face.

She tries not to think about how there’s no reason for Aliya to care about anything she does anymore.

* * *

 

Twenty minutes to go until warm-ups for qualifications begins, and Russia’s gymnastics team captain is nowhere to be seen.

Masha is frantically trying to pull the younger girls together, even as she fights down the familiar flood of nerves welling up within. Melka looks like she just ate a can of worms. Dasha, for her part, is facing the corner of the dimly-lit foyer muttering some kind of Orthodox mantra meant to help calm her down, but it’s only setting everyone else on edge. The only girl who doesn’t look like a walking catastrophe just waiting to happen is Seda. That’s because she’s wondering whether the eggs benedict from this morning’s breakfast will make an encore appearance on the menu tomorrow.

She really, really hopes it will.

Grebs, staggering under the weight of no less than five large red-and-white duffel bags slung around his neck, beckons for them to start making their way down the athlete’s tunnel. Frowning at the four girls milling around, he snaps his head automatically towards Masha.

“Where the hell is Aliya?”

Masha sighs exasperatedly. “I’m not her handler, I don’t know! She must have stayed behind in the locker room. I think she was having trouble adjusting her leotard.”

Grebs narrows his eyes. “Is there something I should know?”

“Nope. No, she’s fine. I’ll get her.” Masha gives him her best no-of-course-she-isn’t-pining-over-a-rival-team-captain smile.

“Well. You better find her right now. They don’t kid around with warm-ups. You get your thirty seconds at the exact time they say so, and then they literally bring out a firehose to make sure you get off the apparatus.” With an air of gruff impatience, Grebs ducks out again.

Muttering under her breath, Masha wraps an arm tightly around Melka, now staring into space with frightened eyes the size of watermelons. She grabs her own personal backpack sitting in the middle of the floor and slings it on her back.

“Seda! I have to head out with the others. You run and check the locker room for Aliya. Chyort, that girl could blow up the moon and still get away with it. Tell her to hurry!” Nodding, Seda hands over the rolls of spare tape in her hands to the stressed out second-in-command and rushes in the direction of the mostly empty holding area. The other gymnasts were already congregating near the mouth of the tunnel, where they would be introduced by the booming voice of God and enter the imposing stadium to thunderous applause and more cameras than most of them had ever seen in their lives.

Breathing heavily, Seda reaches the wide hallway where the locker rooms are located. She pushes open a heavy wooden door to her right and pokes her head in. “Alka?”

No answer. Not that she was expecting one.

Once inside, Seda frantically scouts the locker room, her shoes squeaking on the gleaming white floor. Rows upon rows of puke-green storage lockers spread out in front of her like a regimented forest that’s been stripped of all its leaves and colors. Weak light filters in through the paneled windows lining the tops of the walls. There's the odd used towel strewn on the floor, and the chirps of a small sparrow unwittingly trapped inside somewhere.

Seda feels a line of sweat form on her brow. But before she starts to properly panic, she walks in on Aliya, seated alone on a narrow wooden bench wedged in between the very last row of lockers. An audible sigh of relief escapes Seda.

Dressed in the same sparkling red and blue leotard as the rest of the team, Aliya’s jacket is zipped up tight around her neck, her bun done up perfectly without a single out-of-place hair. She doesn’t appear to be doing much except staring at the ground, dense eyelashes obscuring nearly all of her velvety, unfocused gaze.

“Grandma, we’re warming up soon. We have to go. Now.” For some reason, Seda finds herself speaking softly, the way she would to a frightened baby rabbit.

After a long stretch of unpunctuated silence, Aliya looks up at Seda. She briefly makes eye contact and acknowledges the girl’s presence, but then sinks back into her own little world, looking straight through Seda like she isn’t even there.

Worried, but familiar enough with Aliya’s moods to let her come around in her own time, Seda slows her breathing down. And waits.

Finally: “Can I ask you something, Seda?” Aliya is distant, like she’s speaking from a place far, far away.

“Da. Of course. Anything.” Seda steps towards her team captain and gently sits down next to her. A mental clock ticks loudly in the back of Seda’s mind, but she ignores it. Trying to force this conversation to go any faster would only have the opposite effect.

When Aliya doesn’t respond, Seda glances sideways to check if she had heard her. She notices how tightly Aliya’s hands are gripped together, tight enough for her knuckles to have turned completely white. “Alka? Are you okay?”

“Why do we put ourselves through all of this?” 

The question catches Seda off guard. “All of... this?”

“This.” Aliya waves an arm in the space behind her. “Years of hard training. Just to come here. To compete.” Her sentences come out short and dulled, like she’s been drained of all the energy to speak in more complete ones.

Seda takes a moment to collect herself. Aliya usually asked these questions without expecting any kind of specific answer, since she almost always had decided for herself what the answer should be already. What she really needed was someone who wouldn’t pretend like they knew what she needed to hear. Wisely, Seda chooses to keep her answers short and sweet. “Because we love gymnastics.”

“Or is it to make our country proud?”

Seda chews thoughtfully on her lip. “Both. Because we love it, and because we want to make our country proud.”

“So if we love something a lot, we’ll do anything for it?” Seda detects a faint hint of bitterness in Aliya’s voice.

“Yes...” Seda slowly begins. She’s unsure whether Aliya is still referring to gymnastics, or something - maybe someone - else. The Russian captain had returned to their suite late last night, without saying a word about what had happened between her and Raisman. Judging by how reclusive she had been since then, Seda guessed it hadn’t been good.

“And if what you love hurts you?” The bitterness is unmistakable this time. Almost accusatory.

In her mind, Seda silently replaces the ‘what’ with a ‘who’. Frowning, Seda looks at Aliya delicately. “How do you mean?”

“We get hurt all the time. From where we are now, in Rio,” Aliya reaches out her right hand to mark an invisible point in the air, “all the way back to when we started training...” Her left hand travels in the opposite direction, as if drawing a horizontal timeline, until her arms are stretched out wide. “How many injuries have we all had in that time? How much have we sacrificed just to end up with broken bones and backs?” She sounds positively angry now, her sentences streaming out much quicker.

Seda hesitantly says, “A lot.” Even now, Seda knew that Masha’s back injury was giving her hell. She would eat a stick of burning dynamite before complaining about it in front of any of the coaches, though. It was the Olympics. You put up, you shut up, and you did what you’ve been trained to do.

“Then why do we keep doing it?”

“Because getting hurt is part of it.” Seda answers without thinking. She says it like she’s saying the sky is blue. There’s no moral tinge to her statement, no attempt to persuade Aliya that this was something she should just accept. “If it wasn’t worth it, we would have all become... I don’t know, accountants.” Seda wrinkles her nose. "I'm terrible with numbers."

Taken aback, Aliya stops to consider her answer. After a long pause, she lets out a low unexpected laugh. “Accountants.” Aliya repeats the word like an inside joke only she knows the punchline to.

Seda gawks at her with wide eyes. What had Raisman said to ruffle their normally unruffled team leader? Was this the part where Aliya walked out on them just before qualifications, to protest how ridiculous it was that gymnastics had taken so much of their lives, but seemingly given so little in return? Surely, she wouldn’t...

A crazy grin now on Aliya’s face, she suddenly pulls Seda in for a big hug, her chin coming to rest snugly atop the younger girl’s head. Aliya closes her eyes, heaving in a deep sigh and then exhaling it in a big huff.

“Alka?” Seda’s voice is muffled against Aliya’s jacket. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Oh Seda. You never say anything wrong.” Releasing the girl from her embrace, Aliya swiftly gets on her feet. She unzips her jacket and stretches a muscle in her neck, before grabbing a still puzzled Seda’s hand and pulling her up. Like a switch has been flipped, Aliya seems to have suddenly returned to her usual, commanding self.

“Come on. We have a job to do.”

As she faithfully follows her unpredictable team captain out of the locker room, Seda decides - again, wisely - not to over analyze whatever the hell it was that just happened.

* * *

 

Aly couldn’t have stabbed any more holes into the sad piece of lettuce on her plate if she had tried.

She’s slumped uncomfortably in one of the plastic seats in the huge cafeteria, lost in a hard-won moment of solitude after dinner. Very few other athletes remain, having retired early to their bedrooms, or gone outside to lounge on one of the many lawns to wile away the humid summer night.

The other girls had headed back to the apartment for a covert celebration of their success at qualifications earlier today. With two days to go before team finals - and despite Martha’s constant lectures about the ‘creeetical’ importance of a healthy diet - there was plenty of time to ingest a decent amount of smuggled chocolate and Doritos without serious consequences.

It had taken some wheedling and a little help from Gabby, but Aly had finally convinced her adrenaline-pumped teammates to go on ahead of her. Promising she would join them shortly to help restrain Simone from carrying out her vow to consume an entire party bag of M&Ms, she just needed some time alone to get her feelings in order.

Aly was caught in a fix, a weird twilight zone. She was still one hundred percent committed to winning - it was the Olympics, after all, the pinnacle of any athlete’s career. At the same time, she was fully one hundred percent demotivated, because no Aliya meant nothing. It all meant nothing. Didn’t it?

She taps her fork irritably against the food tray. The team final was coming up soon. She had to be all there for the girls. Her duty towards them far outweighed any personal issues she was dealing with. She just needed to get out of this funk. But how? How was she was going to get over the fact that Aliya -

“Hi. Did that lettuce murder your entire family?”

A cheerful, teasing voice with a lightly melodic accent - it sounds European, but not French or German, or any of the usual suspects  _and certainly not Russian_  - rings out from behind.

Aly twists in her seat to search for the source of the strange question. Her surprised eyes find Eythora Thorsdottir, the Dutch gymnast making waves in the gymnastics world with her impeccable sense of artistry and fresh takes on a fairly straitjacket code of points. The girl’s long, dark hair is pulled back into a simple ponytail that travels a good way past her shoulders. She’s wearing a snug, bright orange jacket with a stark blue zip. On anyone else but the infamously photogenic Dutch girls, the outfit would probably be unflattering, like a tanning job gone terribly wrong.

“I’m sorry. What was that again?” Aly thinks she heard something about the lettuce committing murder, but she’s not sure because no one really says things like that to a stranger... right? She finds herself shifting under the intensity of Eythora’s graphite grey eyes. They hold a sharp but friendly sort of intelligence, like they’re always figuring out something complex. The high cheekbones and ivory paleness of her face bring out their shapeliness even more.

Eythora points a slender finger towards the tattered, hole-ridden lettuce. It does look a bit like Aly has been exacting some kind of gruesome revenge on it. 

“It’s something we say back home, but,” she shrugs apologetically with a tiny smile, “I think it loses its funny-ness - if there is such a word - in English.” The girl taps her chin thoughtfully. “Or more likely, no one else would find it funny, even in Dutch.” Her English is flawless. The precise way she pronounces and rounds each vowel makes the language seem more flowy than usual. It’s charming, and unusually soothing.

Glancing at the lettuce, Aly laughs embarrassedly. “Oh no, that’s - you’re good. If anyone can appreciate a weird sense of humor, it’s me.” Her eyes widen in horror at the implication of the words she just uttered. “Not that your sense of humor is weird! Just... just mine.”

Eythora tilts her head to the side, a steady gaze fixed on the stuttering American.

Face burning, Aly hurries to leave behind the cluttered chaos of words tumbling out of her mouth. “I’m sorry I didn’t hear you before. I was zoned out, thinking about…” She pauses and flicks her eyes guiltily downwards, because she suddenly remembers all the times Martha had grilled into them not to interact in such close quarters with rival teams at this crucial point in the Olympics, “… team finals.”

Signaling her understanding with another smile, Eythora doesn’t seem at all fazed by Aly’s slight hesitation. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but could I join you for a little while? My girls are still out at some all-you-can-eat restaurant, but I decided to stay here. Annoyingly,” she says with a twinkle in her eyes, “I’m vegetarian. And they serve meat there like - how to say,  _water uit de kraan_. Water, from a...” Unable to recall the word, Eythora makes a motion in the air with her hand, like she’s twisting a faucet.

“A tap?” Aly offers. Eythora gives a satisfied nod as Aly’s mouth drops open in disbelief. “Wow. Your coaches let you go out during competitions?” She might as well have said that dinosaurs still roamed the earth.

The girl chuckles, bemused by the question. “Of course. Training and stressing out twenty-four seven don’t really help us do well. Don’t you think?”

Nodding her agreement, without saying if Team USA went to an all-you-can-eat before their meets were over that Martha would personally flay them alive, Aly gestures towards the empty seat opposite her with a bashful wave of her hand. Eythora responds with a wide grin, but instead pulls the chair closest to Aly and settles herself into it.

“I’m Eythora, by the way.” They don’t really need a formal introduction, but ingrained manners and the realization that this is the first time they’ve spoken to each other one-on-one prompts Eythora to extend her hand.

Aly reaches out and gives it an awkward shake. “I’m Aly. You didn’t have to... I mean, I know who you are. Your gymnastics is amazing. I’m a huge fan.” As Eythora’s eyes light up at the unexpected compliment, Aly ducks her head shyly. “Although it seems I’ve been saying your name wrong this whole time.”

“Really? How have you been saying it?” Eythora angles forward, lips curled up in anticipation.

After a little coaxing from the other girl, Aly finally sounds out ‘Eythora’, with an extended ‘e’ and a rolling American ‘r’. It’s not terrible; it’s the way a lot of people unfamiliar with the elven-like intricacies of the Dutch language say it. Still, Eythora catches the trepidation in Aly’s expression and bursts into laughter, the kind that breaks into a thousand pieces and skips all over the place.

Aly turns bright red.

Noticing the flustered change in her complexion, Eythora hastens to add, “That’s pretty good! Most people find the sounds in Dutch really difficult to get right at first. It gets better with practice.”

Aly has half a heart to tell Eythora that based on her track record with new languages, she highly doubts it will get better. A stab in the gut, and then the fleeting memory of Aliya backing away from her like she might be contagious, reminds her of how disastrous the last time she attempted to speak a European language had been. She swallows hard and quickly changes the subject. “You and your team did really well today in qualifications. Congratulations!”

Smiling widely, Eythora thanks her. “It’s kind of crazy. We haven’t had a national team in the Olympic finals since 1976. The press is going a bit wild at home.” With the first hint of shyness since the conversation began, Eythora clasps her hands together and says, “Your team blew everyone else away, as usual. It was awesome just to compete with you in the same division.”

Aly looks at her lap. She’s never been good at dealing with compliments, other than to acknowledge them humbly and promptly throw the spotlight back onto the other person. “Thanks. I’ve always enjoyed the routines you girls come up with, though. There’s something about your choreography that makes it really exciting to watch.”

Eythora’s eyebrows draw together in a slight grimace. “We try. Today, I didn’t do so well with my floor exercise. I messed up my last pass.”

“Don’t worry, it happens to all of us.” Aly’s reassuring tone elicits a grateful grin from the other girl. “I know your national program is huge on dance elements and execution. It really shows. If I could do spins and turns as well as you all, I’d die of happiness.”

The corners of Eythora’s eyes crinkle in delight. “I like your choreography too.”

She says it so warmly, it makes the American blush again. Aly wonders why it is she’s blushing so much. Then she kicks herself for overthinking. This was a completely normal conversation between two gymnasts with mutual respect for one another. It was a welcome reprieve in such a nerve-wracking setting as the Olympics.

“It’s okay. I’m not really a great dancer, but I get by.” Out of self-consciousness, Aly reaches a hand up to smooth her hair down. “Sylvia, my choreographer, helps me out a lot.”

“Why do you say you’re not a great dancer?”

“Oh... just...” Aly flounders. Her hand stops mid-sweep, falling to her side. She struggles to come up with anything else besides, ‘because I’m not?’ No one’s ever really asked her that before. Nor is she used to having astute questions so casually fired back at her. It’s odd that she doesn’t mind the probing, even though she barely knows the girl. Eythora has an endearing way of delivering questions that makes not responding to them feel... wrong.

Twirling the fork contemplatively in her hand, Aly answers slowly, “Well, I’m super clumsy. I was definitely born with it, but it might also have something to do with growing up really self-conscious, I guess.” Reading the surprise on Eythora’s face, she continues quietly, “I got teased a lot.”

“Who would tease you?” Incredulity breaks through in the girl’s voice. “And even if there were people stupid enough to do that, what could they possibly find to tease you about?”

Aly laughs, touched by Eythora’s instant, wide-eyed indignation. “Trust me, the kids I grew up with said all sorts of things that got to me. About my body, about my muscles being too big, about my two left feet. But all of that made me stronger. And made me who I am today.” She looks reflectively down at the floor with a rueful smile. “Still, dancing’s never felt natural for me.” Her stint on Dancing With the Stars had boosted her confidence in that department, and she used her visibility to speak out against body shaming every chance she got. But underneath the layers of self-affirmation she had built up over the years, there would always remain a part of her that feels she falls short of the world’s idea of an ideal gymnast. Even if in reality, there is no such thing.

Eythora is silent for awhile. Her thoughts remain hidden from Aly, who’s concerned she might have said too much. The girl’s slight build, perfect bone structure and approachable demeanor make Aly wonder if Eythora has ever been seriously teased in her life. She looks like the girl that becomes class president by default, because she’s the only person practically everyone likes.

“So, are you good friends with Aliya Mustafina?”

It’s an innocent question, but the totally left of field reference to Aliya startles Aly. The fork clatters to the plate. Her pulse starts uncomfortably pounding in her ears. How does she know? Who  _else_  knows?

“We’ve known each other for some time. We compete a lot against each other... Why do you ask?” Aly rushes her words just a little too much.

“I saw the both of you walking together outside in the Village the night before. I waved, but I don’t think you saw me.” Eythora looks intrigued by the American’s reaction. “It just seemed like you two know each other really well.”

Feeling panicky, like she needs to offer up something to plug the abrupt gap in the conversation, Aly blurts out, “No, we just - sometimes we run into each other, that’s all. Aliya was giving me a few pointers on um, bars. She’s really, really good at bars.” Gritting her teeth at how silly that sounds, Aly plasters a weak smile over her face. And suddenly catches a glimpse of the giant digital clock mounted on the wall behind them.

“Wow, I didn’t realize the time! I’m sorry, but I should go... My team’s expecting me.” Aly gets to her feet reluctantly; she really does have to split, but the timing now makes it seem as though she’s dodging further questions about Aliya (in all honesty, she probably is). There’s another reason for her reluctance; she’s actually enjoyed chatting to Eythora. There’s a likeable quirkiness about her that had helped distract from the twinge of losing Aliya for good. Up until the last few moments, anyway. She just hopes all her awkwardness hadn’t left the girl thinking she’s some sort of neurotic mess.

Though they’re technically rivals, Aly wishes Eythora well with her whole heart. “It was great seeing you. I’m sure we’ll bump into each other again. Good luck with the rest of the competition!”

Eythora stands to see her off. “I hope the bumping into each other will be soon. Very soon.” At that, Aly leans in for a friendly hug, partly to hide the flush she feels rising on her cheeks (again). Catching a sweet citrusy scent on the Dutch girl that reminds her of a sunny springtime day, she feels Eythora return the hug with a surprising familiarity, her hands coming up to touch Aly’s waist for the briefest of moments. The girl’s ease at striking up a friendship with someone she’s only talked to for less than twenty minutes makes Aly think Eythora might do really well running for Prime Minister of Netherlands one day.

Stepping back from the hug, Aly picks up her plate - still containing that fateful piece of lettuce - gives Eythora a last sheepish smile, and leaves.

* * *

 

The second thought Eythora Thorsdottir has as she watches Aly Raisman make her way to the cafeteria exit causes an irrepressible smile to spread across her elegant features.

Her first thought was how adorably Aly had managed to trip over a chair on the way to a cafeteria bin. She had then clumsily tried, but failed multiple times to stuff the plate into the bin’s opening. It had been too full.

Eythora breathes slowly, to steady her mind.

Despite her interest in Aly’s connection to Aliya Mustafina, particularly after the girl’s cute, bumbling explanation of their appearance together the night before, Eythora had chosen not to dig any further. She had only mentioned Mustafina to steer the conversation away from the sensitive topic of childhood bullies, but it seems talking about the Russian had inadvertently caused even more discomfort.

Plucking up the courage to approach Raisman had paid off in a big way. Eythora still can’t believe that conversation, and that hug, actually happened. She had hidden it well, but it was surreal to have talked with the American she’s harbored a bit of celebrity crush on ever since watching the Fierce Five take out team gold in London.

She knows she looks like an idiot, standing there in the middle of the cafeteria, glazed awe written all over her face. All her suspicions had been confirmed. It was the natural glow the girl had, the way her teddy-bear brown eyes spoke kindness in more ways than words ever could, a tangible solidness in her character she’s never felt before in anyone else.

Aly Raisman is every bit as fascinating - and beautiful - as Eythora suspected she would be.


	7. Impossible (Part II)

Sissone to side aerial. Swing down into the Korbut, avoid death by faceplant. Immediately celebrate survival with an end-of-beam yas queen pose. Switch ring, followed by sheep jump. Dance like everyone owes you their undivided allegiance. Then illusion turn, because you’re a boss about to stun everyone with a flawless split leap and aerial. And if that won’t kill them, straight L turn, switch split, single spin and Y turn in quick succession, because  _why the hell not._

The triple twist at the end lands with a satisfying thump on the mat.

“Nice work, Eythora!” Sanne Wever raises her hand as she walks past her teammate towards the other end of the beam.

Breathing hard, Eythora returns Sanne’s high five, pleased the last training before team finals tomorrow was going so smoothly for them. Mingling with other gymnasts had revealed they were one of the most relaxed groups competing. This, despite it being Netherland’s first shot at Olympic team glory in over four decades. Every single media interviewer had brought that piece of trivia up, holding it over their heads like the sword of Damocles. At times, Eythora had to stop herself from grabbing the camera and yelling into it, “We know, we know!” But the media frenzy hadn’t daunted them in the least. They were having the time of their lives in Rio, doing the best they could. Eythora was proud of her girls for that.

She strolls over to where the rest of her teammates and Giulia Steingruber are chatting and giggling on the floor area facing the beam. Without a team and effectively in Rio on her own, the bubbly Swiss gymnast had become a welcome attachment to their little entourage. She trained with them whenever she could, and joined them at mealtimes armed with an endless supply of hilariously inappropriate jokes and gymnastics circuit gossip.

Sitting down next to Giulia, Eythora catches the tail of an energetic retelling of a story that sounds like it took place at the afterparty in Glasgow Worlds last year.

“… nicest girl ever. Can you imagine? I had a huge split up the back of my dress, freaking out in the lady’s room. She walks in, and immediately offers to help.”

“Who’s this?” Eythora asks curiously. She settles into a split position and curves forward in a deep stretch.

Giulia turns to her with a grin. “Simone Biles. She’s as nice as everyone says she is. Her coach too! She was the one that helped pin my dress back together. I don’t know how else I could’ve walked out of there. Actually, the whole American team is pretty awesome once you get to know them.”

A smile plays on Eythora’s lips as she recalls her encounter with their team captain. “Yes, they are.”

“Have you had a chance to meet them here?” Giulia thoughtfully twirls the end of her blonde ponytail around one finger. “They’re really hard to catch. They kind of all stick together, and I hear their national coordinator is very strict about who they speak to during competitions. ”

“Well,” Eythora shifts to sit in a cross-legged position and casually props her chin on one hand. “I talked to Aly Raisman yesterday.”

Sharp sounds of surprise emanate from everyone in the group. Eythora laughs at the expressions on their faces. “What? I had to find someone to hang out with after you all abandoned me last night,” she says, shrugging.

“What did you guys talk about? Was she by herself?” Even Céline, usually the quietest one of the group, can’t help but dig more.

Eythora remembers the way Aly had smiled like the most genuine person on earth. “Yes, she was by herself for some reason. We talked a bit about everything. Mostly about gymnastics. She was lovely. Not that I was expecting anything else.” The girl is perfectly mesmerizing in a strangely dorky, attractive kind of way, and I find myself wondering when I’ll get to see her next almost every five minutes, is what Eythora really wants to blurt out. An idea strikes her. “Giulia, how well do you know Aliya Mustafina? You’ve met her lots of times at other meets.”

“You mean what do I know other than that she has a terrifying look that’ll turn you into stone if you stare too hard?”

Eythora swats at Giulia’s arm. “She can’t be that bad. Mustafina seems nice.”

“She can be nice if she wants to. For a Russian... What!” Giulia protests the side-eye Eythora gives her for that unflattering stereotype. “You know what I mean. But I don’t know, there’s always this wall with Mustafina. Also, I’ve heard things.”

“You hear lots of ‘things’.”

Grinning, Giulia acknowledges the truth in Eythora’s skeptical statement with a knowing tilt of her head. “Okay, so more than half of what I hear ends up being crazy stories made up by half-drunk girls. But it’s different with Mustafina. I’ve seen and heard enough to know she can be quite… a someone.” It’s unclear whether she means that as a good or a bad thing.

“Well, she has to be, if she’s the captain of Team Russia. I’ve never spoken to her properly, but she seems like a great girl. And really, really talented.” Ever the optimist, Eythora refuses to think anything bad of anyone if she didn’t have good reason to.

“Come to think of it, I have heard some pretty big rumors…” Giulia trails off, eyes darting from side to side like she’s about to reveal something of great secrecy.

Eythora raises an eyebrow. “Rumors?”

“From back at the London Olympics. About Mustafina and - ” Looking carefully around, as if the surrounding space might be bugged, Giulia whispers in a low voice, “Raisman.” She immediately clams up and concentrates on adjusting her wrist strap.

The Dutch girl thinks back to how Aly’s face had seized up in a pained expression at the mention of Aliya Mustafina’s name. Maybe there was something more to it than she had thought. “You can’t put that out there and not keep going,” Eythora objects. “What happened?” Despite resolving to keep cool about this, her interest in Aly’s past is fast growing.

Giulia looks over at her teasingly. “I thought you weren’t the type to chase rumors?”

“Come on…” Eythora puts on a pleading tone, even as she fights to hide a grin. She knows she won’t have to push too hard. It’s in the girl’s DNA to spill.

Sure enough, unable to resist disclosing one of the more explosive stories she’s picked up over the years in the perpetually dramatic world of elite gymnastics, Giulia bends towards Eythora and drops the volume of her voice so only their group can hear. “I’ve heard that Mustafina and Raisman were together. You know,  _together_  together. People saw them around the athlete’s village, in locker rooms, being, let’s say, close.”

Eythora sucks in her breath. This wasn’t exactly what she had expected. Nor wanted to hear.

“Who’s being close?” Sanne cuts in, having just finished her beam routine. Dropping to the floor the journal she uses to meticulously record all her skills and connections, she sits down on the other side of Giulia. She looks around weirdly at the tight-knit circle of girls. “And why do all of you look like you’ve swallowed a live fish?”

As the other girls excitedly fill Sanne in on the juicy details of the conversation, Eythora frowns. “They’re just rumors, no? Gymnasts make friends with other gymnasts at meets all the time. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

Giulia’s sly, pointed look says she thinks this particular rumor was most likely no rumor at all, but cold hard fact. Gloomily, Eythora conjures up the image of the striking captains walking by in perfect sync, like they were headed for a world only the two of them could enter. Aly had denied there was anything between them, and yet… A bit too anxiously, she asks, “Are they still together?”

The Swiss girl shakes her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

Eythora perks up, but catches herself just in time so that it’s not so obvious. “How do you know? What happened?”

Holding both her palms up in a shrug, Giulia puts on her best unsolved mystery voice. “No one really knows. But I saw them both at 2013 Worlds and I’ve spoken to a few of the Russian girls since. They are definitely not friendly with each other anymore.”

A wave of relief washes over Eythora. Her heart constricts a little less. “That’s all I really need to know.”

Lieke, the other Wever sister who has been listening in with mild interest this whole time, immediately looks up. Her natural sensitivity registers the steely look of determination gathering on her younger teammate’s face. It’s a look she’s seen many times before, the one Eythora gets when she’s about to throw her whole heart and soul into something. 

“Eythora? What are you thinking?” Lieke probes warily.

“Just thinking.”

“I know that face. And what’s with all the questions about - “ In a flash of realization, Lieke’s eyes widen. “ _You like her!_ ”

Eythora’s first instinct is to deny it straight away. But what would be the point? Suddenly, she also realizes she needs an outlet for the weird, giddy feeling she's not been able to shake off since yesterday evening. “Who  _wouldn’t_  like her? And you know I’ve always had a thing for brunettes,” she says with a helpless shrug.

“You’ve spoken to her what, once? How is that even possible?” Lieke voices disbelievingly.

“Not to mention,” chimes in Sanne, “the last brunette you liked was a six-foot tall violinist called Daniel. And look how that turned out.” Her unhelpful contribution earns an evil eye from Eythora, and she chuckles. Unlike her twin, Sanne seems to be finding the whole thing quite entertaining.

Lieke is undeterred. “You know what I mean. Be careful, Eythora. You don’t want to go starting any drama here, especially at the Olympics. And,” Lieke directs a look at the rest of the team to back her up, “especially not with the Russians.”

“I’m not interested in starting any drama,” Eythora explains patiently. “I just want to get to know her better. And I want her to get to know me. Besides, you heard Giulia. Whatever happened between them happened years ago.”

Giulia raises her hands, as if washing them clean of any responsibility over the trouble her gossip might have stirred up.

Drumming her fingers on the mat, Lieke remains unconvinced. Always looking out for her teammates, she didn’t want Eythora getting into anything that might end up biting her back. “And let’s say for argument’s sake - you get to ‘know’ Raisman better - what about afterwards? Will you two keep getting to ‘know’ each other with an entire ocean between you?”

“Whoa. That’s thinking a little bit too far ahead, isn’t it?”

Lieke gives Eythora a worried glance. “It’s my job to think too far ahead.”

“Don’t worry. Our team and the competition comes first, always,” Eythora says with a reassuring certainty. “But Mustafina or no Mustafina, I know someone worth taking a risk for when I see them. And she…” Eythora breaks to reminisce the tiniest of details. The way Aly’s lashes lowered over eyes of uncompromising decency, the sweetness in her voice. Her pulse picks up immediately, something that almost neverhappens outside of competitions, and especially not because of a girl she barely knows. “I can’t quite put my finger on why, yet. But she is that someone.”

Then, grinning like she’s just figured out how to conjure up rainbows at will, Eythora looks around at her stunned teammates. “In fact, I think she’s the first.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The second thought Aly Raisman has when she sees Eythora off in the distance is laced with confusion.

It was the day. Team freaking finals day. 

The sun beats down, casting a brilliant golden shadow over everything in sight. As usual, Aly is making her way around the leafy Village walkways, soaking in the peacefulness of another crispy, Rio morning. It would give her something to hold onto for later, when she led Team USA to what would hopefully be their second consecutive team gold. She was going to need all the superhuman calm she could store inside of her.

Aly also secretly hoped to run into Aliya again. Not that she knew what to do if that actually happened. Deep down, she still refused to believe their last encounter had been… well, the  _end_. She knew it would haunt her for the rest of her life, if the last image of Aliya seared into her mind was the one of her staunchly walking away, leaving her stranded in that god-awful gym.

Preoccupied with her thoughts, Aly listlessly follows the curve of the footpath without really caring where it leads. It isn’t until she hears what sounds like a group of giant komodo dragons hissing at each other that she stops in her tracks to look up. She’s unknowingly reached the centerpiece of the athlete’s village. A row of ridiculously pruned trees encircle an even more elaborate display of fountains that are noisily and unsuccessfully trying to sputter out water. Something must be wrong with the system. Her attention, however, is quickly drawn to the radiant flash of orange on the well-kept lawn next to the fountains, just a few short meters ahead.

The girl doesn’t appear to be bothered by the waterworks’ graceless sounds. Motionless, she stands with one leg fully stretched out in front of the other, her body low to the ground. Both her arms are raised above her head, the flats of her palms joined together, eyes closed, like she’s meditating in a basic yoga position.

Aly’s first thought was to spin around and head in the opposite direction. But for some reason she stops, back half-turned. Part of her wants to go up and say good luck for team finals, but maybe she doesn’t want to be disturbed. Then again, it might be rude if she just walked away without saying anything. God, why is she being so annoyingly indecisive about such a small thing? Just as Aly decides to side with her first instinct, a voice clear as crystal calls out to her, putting an end to her bickering thoughts. 

“Aly! Wait up.” 

She hears the light patter of someone jogging in her direction, and turns around. As Eythora nears, Aly can’t help but grin at her massive, red-cheeked smile. “Hey,” she says, sticking her hands into her jacket pockets, hoping this time round she can manage to not sound like a blathering idiot.

“Hæ,” Eythora says, her dimples showing.

“Hi…?” Aly repeats the sound she heard. It sounded like a hi, but with a foreign coloration that made it sound archaic, like something courtiers used to say to each other in a medieval court.

“That’s hi, in Icelandic.” 

“You speak Icelandic too?” Aly feels a slight hint of shame, having spoken only one language all her life.

“My family is originally from there, so I speak it at home. It’s no big deal.” Coy, spirited eyes lingering on an impressed Aly Raisman, Eythora quickly changes subject. “Well, this is bumping into each other again very soon. I’m happy.” Her expression makes it seem as though all her birthdays have come at once.

Aly laughs. She has no idea why the girl is so pleased to see her, but it sparks a little warmth in her all the same. “What are you doing up so early?”

“Probably the same reason as you,” Eythora replies.

It’s still early enough that Aly can count on one hand how many other athletes are carrying out their daily morning stretches on the sprawling lawns in front of the apartment blocks in the distance. “I take walks around here most mornings. It helps clear my head and gets me ready.”

“You are nervous, for today?” 

She really does have a knack for getting straight to the point, Aly thinks. Carefully, she redirects the question. “Why, are you?”

Eythora openly smiles at the guarded response, acknowledging that she’s speaking to a true team leader who's hesitant to give off even a whiff of fear. “Yes. Very nervous,” she says honestly.

“Actually, me too. A little,” Aly admits with a small grin. Pointing towards the foam mat (bright orange, of course) spread out on the grass, she asks, “And you? Is this what you do to get ready before a big competition?”

The girl nods. “I do special stretches that help control my nerves. They help me get into character for the artistic elements of my routines too.”

“How does that work?”

Eythora’s eyes brighten. “Why don’t I show you? Come.” She says it in a way that isn’t demanding at all, but causes Aly’s feet to automatically follow her back to the little oasis of calm she’s set up around her mat. As they walk together, the fountains finally find their groove, spraying the air with rivulets of water that criss-cross each other perfectly in the center of the oval pond.

“I was thinking about what you said the other night, about dancing. I wanted to tell you that I wasn’t completely comfortable with it either, at first,” Eythora says as she bends down to brush off blades of grass scattered over her mat.

Aly finds that hard to believe. “But you move so well!”

Looking up, Eythora’s sunny laugh skips through the air. “Thanks. It wasn’t always like that, though. I had a lot of spare time to practice. When my back started hurting, all I could do was walk around in an ugly brace, watching all the other girls train.”

“What happened?”

“It was a few years ago. No one knew what was wrong. Not even the doctors could tell me. I just knew it felt like…” Pausing, trying to describe the kind of pain it was, Eythora makes a circle with her index finger and thumb, as if holding a tiny pin, and makes repeated jabbing movements in the air. “Like this, all the time.”

“Wow,” Aly says quietly, imagining it for herself. “That must have been awful. And frustrating.”

Eythora stands, straightens the creases in her track pants and gives Aly a sideways grin. “It was difficult. And I was a baby about it for awhile. But it ended up working out really well. My coach used the time to teach me weird stretches and techniques to help me hold and express myself better on floor and beam. It can start out feeling a little stupid, but it works. Here, you start like this.”

She resumes the position Aly saw her in before, exhaling while she slides her right leg incrementally forward, sinking towards the ground. Then, as she very slowly inhales, her arms spread out, rising upwards and over her head, before her fingertips meet in a perfect arch at the top. Aly notices her back straightening, and a different kind of weighted aura settles into Eythora’s shoulders. 

“When you breathe out, you’re meant to empty yourself of well, yourself,” she explains. “But when you breathe in, you fill yourself with the character you’re meant to be. Me, for example, I’m a fearless princess about to lead her troops into battle.” Opening one eye briefly to peek at the look on Aly’s face, Eythora laughs with a rare hint of self-consciousness. “I warned you, it’s a bit strange.”

Aly considers it for a moment, and then shrugs with a smile. "I guess I could imagine myself to be someone who doesn't have two left feet." She’s grateful the girl trusts her enough to reveal what essentially is a trade secret. Studying Eythora's position carefully, she starts to mirror her movements. It doesn’t seem too hard… She has no trouble getting to the first stance - she’s used to stretching out like this - but as soon as she lifts both arms up and starts to fill her lungs with air, her center of gravity suddenly shifts. 

For a split second, Aly feels like she’s about to topple in a heap to the ground.

Quick as lightning, Eythora’s hands reach out to steady her. Too embarrassed to thank her for her cat-like reflexes, Aly blushes when she notices that Eythora is standing close. Very close. 

“The hard part is controlling the breathing,” Eythora advises, her voice wafting a hair’s width from Aly’s ear. “It has to come for your diaphragm, right here.” She points to Aly’s lower stomach. “Do you mind if I…?” She leaves her sentence unfinished and glances down, where her hands are politely seeking permission to fix up a few things.

_Oh._

“Oh, right. Sure,” Aly tries to say as casually as possible.

She instinctively tenses up as Eythora’s fingers deftly press down on either side of hips to shift them into a slightly different position. Detecting the American’s nervousness, Eythora gives a light laugh. “Relax,” she instructs gently. She steps back to assess the placement of Aly’s feet, her mouth working into a concentrated frown as she swiftly adjusts an out-of-place shoulder, reaches around to place her palm against the small of Aly’s back to ease it into a straighter posture.

With parts of her mind panicking and falling all over themselves trying to figure out how to handle this unexpected amount of physical contact, Aly isn’t sure if she’s capable of relaxing in any sense of the word. So instead she focuses on breathing out, to empty herself of herself.

Breathes in.

_I am captain of the best Olympics gymnastics team in the world. Totally not confused by the situation I find myself in right now._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The second thought Aliya Mustafina has when she spots another girl wrapped around Aly Raisman is that bright orange is the ugliest color she has ever beheld in her life. Anyone caught wearing it should be sent straight to the seventh circle of hell. 

It’s a significant step down from her initial desire to strangle whoever is sporting that ghastly excuse of a jacket. _Whoever it is that thinks they have a right to put their hands all over her like that._

It was, however, beyond the power of her good senses to stop her feet from angrily walking over at full speed to confront Raisman and that girl who would soon be sorry she ever woke up this morning.

As she gets closer to the pair, a nasty possessiveness rear up inside of her. On some level, Aliya knows it’s unfair. She had, after all, told Raisman they could never again be anything more than rival competitors. She had chosen to walk away, because she wasn’t prepared to risk being driven to the edge of madness when the time inevitably came to lose Aly again. But to see her with someone else, doing… well, what the hell  _were_  they doing? 

“Can we help you?”

Consumed by a blinding storm of emotions, it takes Aliya a moment to register that she’s already standing hands on hips, scowling, in front of Raisman - who’s still stuck in a ridiculous position - and  _that girl,_  whom she now recognizes to be Eythora Thorsdottir. The question had come from her.

When Aliya doesn’t answer, Eythora raises an eyebrow and looks at her strangely.

Under different circumstances, Aliya would have introduced herself with a polite smile. She would have told the Dutch gymnast how she admired her style of artistic gymnastics. It was rare to see someone with such an intuitive sense of performance on the floor. She might have even good-naturedly whipped out the few limited Dutch words she knows. Aliya had heard only good things about Thorsdottir, had no reason to think ill of her.

Until now.

Now, she wouldn’t give a damn if Thorsdottir turned out to be the Mother Theresa of artistic gymnastics.  _‘We’?_   Who did she think she was, speaking for Raisman too? The fact that she was pulling some amateurish stunt involving way more touching of Raisman than was necessary - that is,  _any touching at all_  - gives her enough reason to hate her with every single atom in her body. 

But all the smouldering rage Aliya is throwing her way doesn’t seem to affect the girl. Eythora seems to find this interruption more comical than anything. Aliya feels the muscles in her jaw tighten. As she returns Thorsdottir’s amused gaze with the force of a harsh Siberian winter, she realizes the Dutch gymnast is standing her ground. Sending her a subtle, but clear challenge.

Not that Raisman looked like she had any clue about what was going on. Her shocked eyes are instead fixed on Aliya. She’s reacting like she’s seen a ghost.

“Aliya? What are you doing here?” From her full stretch, Aly had immediately whipped around to see who Eythora was speaking to. She had managed to do it without falling flat on her face, although not without a huge effort.

“I ask same. For you.” Scorning Eythora, Aliya directs her frosty answer-but-not-really-an-answer towards Aly. 

Eythora smoothly brushes off the slight and sticks out her hand. “It’s really nice to finally meet you, Aliya. I’m Eythora.” She puts on an affable smile, pretending as if nothing explosive is lurking just beneath the surface between the three of them. But the way her keen eyes flick back and forth, calculating the complex equation of unspoken feelings, tells Aliya she knows more than she’s letting on.

The Russian eyes the hand distastefully, like it’s a personal insult. She wants to make it abundantly clear that she isn’t here to make friends, much less give a newly sworn enemy any satisfaction of being treated civilly. On the other hand, her better nature is urging her to do the bare minimum that civility requires and just shake the damn hand - but she can’t. Not when the image of Thorsdottir all over Aly is still replaying over and over in her mind.

A dragged out moment sucks all the pleasantness out of the morning air, before Aly finally springs into action.

“Eythora, I’m so sorry. I’ll be back in just a second.“ Aly shoots the Dutch gymnast a deeply apologetic look. The girl calmly assures her that it’s fine, and that she’ll wait for her right there on the lawn, causing Aliya to scowl even more. 

Aly grabs Aliya’s arm and drags her away, out of earshot. “Why are you being so rude? What is your problem?” Aly hisses between her teeth, as soon as she’s sure Eythora can’t hear them.

_My problem?_

Wrenching her arm free,Aliya fiercely points to herself - “Nyet. Problem not here,” - before stabbing a finger furiously against Aly’s shoulder, making her yelp in surprise. “Problem is here.”

“Excuse me?” Aly has to shut her eyes momentarily, massaging her temples with her fingertips.

“You are not knowing what you do with this girl.”

“I’m not doing anything! I just happened to walk past, and Eythora was nice enough to teach me some exercises to help. Anyway,” Aly shakes her head vigorously mid-sentence, “why do I have to explain myself to you?”

“I not want explanation,” Aliya retorts disdainfully. “Only asking you not to be with other girl on my…” struggling for awhile to find the right word, Aliya waves her hand towards the footpath, “road.”

“ _Your_  road?”

Aliya coolly crosses her arms, glaring. “Da.”

“Honestly, it’s like you Russians think you own everything!”

Without skipping a beat, Aliya shoots back dryly, “At least Russians know what we own. Not like Americans, always thinking they own what belong someone else.”

“What is that even supposed to mean?” Aly snaps. Aly isn't one to lose her temper easily, but Aliya can nevertheless see her struggling to contain it. “I’m not even going to go there with you. We have enough to fight about without bringing politics into this.”

“Raisman, you think this is fight?” Aliya arches a condescending eyebrow. Clearly, this all-American nice girl wouldn’t last a single second in a proper altercation.

Choosing to look past that dig, Aly throws her hands up, frustrated. “What do you want from me, Aliya? Didn’t you want me to stay as far away from you as possible? Why are you even talking to me?” Her voice notches up several volumes higher.

“I not ask you to stay away. Not from me. Never.” Seeing Aly get angry only makes Aliya’s own temper flare up even more. Didn’t this thick-headed American see that Thorsdottir was trying to take advantage of her? Didn’t she know her own reluctance to throw herself into a time machine, back to the heartache of London,  _wasn’t_ signal for ‘go, find a random girl’s arms and run into them’?

Surprise lights up on Aly’s face at the resentment in Aliya’s tone. “Let’s see. You told me that I’m nothing. Then you told me that we should just be normal competitors. Then we kissed. But when I told you that I love you, you told me to ‘take care of myself’, and practically ran away from me,” Aly rapidly ticks off each thing one by one on her fingers. “How else am I supposed to interpret that?”

“Yes. I say all these things. But I never say stay away. And never think you find someone so quick.” Even Aliya knows she’s starting to sound just a little unreasonable, but so what? She has a right to be upset after what she just saw. 

“So you expect me to hang around, but not get too close to you, and stay away from everyone else. God, you are really something!”

Aliya glowers. “Something what?”

“No, nothing comes after the ‘something’. It’s just an expression. To say that you’re really… impossible. That’s it. You’re  _impossible_.” At this, Aliya’s mouth opens angrily. But before the Russian can respond with more vitriol of her own, Aly abruptly cuts her off, her eyes widening. “Wait. I know what this is.”

Annoyed at being derailed by an English technicality, Aliya puffs out her lips and glares in the direction of where Eythora is standing, her back towards them. “Da, what is this, Raisman? I want know too.”

“You’re jealous.”

“Jea - lous?” Aliya rolls the word off her tongue, then narrows her eyes and shrugs indifferently, the way she always does when she doesn’t recognize a word. Or when she does recognize it, but chooses to pretend like she doesn’t.

“Jealous. I can’t believe it. You, jealous.” Aly repeats the word, probably more times than is necessary. It grates on Aliya’s nerves. “It means you hate seeing me with other people.” She frowns. “But I don’t get it. You have someone, Aliya. Your boyfriend, in Moscow. What is it to you who I hang out with, who I end up with, who I kiss? It shouldn’t matter to you!”

“ _She kiss you?!_ ” Aliya is immediately beside herself, those few words being the only part of Aly’s rant that had jumped out at her and felt like someone had thrown a bucket of loose razor blades right at her. 

“No!” Aly yells, before suddenly remembering that they’re not exactly in a private setting appropriate for this kind of heated exchange. She lowers her voice, though still incensed. “Of course she didn’t! Are you crazy? My point is,  _you have a boyfriend_.”

Aliya freezes. She had completely forgotten about the phantom boyfriend she was supposedly seeing back home. It pours cold water over her rage, over the overwhelming relief she had felt upon hearing Aly say kissing Thorsdottir would be crazy. “Aly - ” she begins, but Aly forges on.

“How do you think that makes me feel, knowing you actually have someone back home, waiting for you? There isn’t even anything happening here,” Aly gestures wildly back at Eythora, “but you think you have a right to be rude to my friend and tell me what I can and can’t do, who I can and can’t spend my time with? What is wrong with you?” 

Her words ricochet like an explosion, all thoughts of avoiding a fight now out the window. The fact that Aly is being so unusually articulate underscores just how mad she is. Aliya inhales, an uncomfortable pall spreading over her. “Aly, boyfriend is not in Moscow,” she says, distressed.

“What?” Aly covers her mouth in horror. “Oh my god. Are you saying he’s here? In Rio? You brought your boyfriend to Rio, and all this time I’ve been…” She looks positively sick.

Not foreseeing this as the way the truth would come out, Aliya shuffles her feet miserably. To rip the bandaid off as quickly as possible, she lets it out in a single rushed breath, “No, you not understand. Boyfriend not in Moscow. Not anywhere. There is no boyfriend.”

“What?” Aly repeats. She stares at Aliya, dumbfounded.

The Russian’s raven eyes turn ashen, feeling guilty for not coming forward with this sooner. She doesn’t know why she didn’t. Was it a petty desire to get back at Aly for abandoning her all those years ago? A buried, disconcerting aspiration to drag Aly through the same kind of pain Aliya herself had gone through? Whatever it was, it should have been beneath her to keep this ruse going for as long as it had. No matter what Aly had done in the past.

“No boyfriend,” Aly says numbly. “But your girl… Maria… she said - ”

“She lie.”

The American’s transformation as the truth sinks in plays out like a tragic film before Aliya’s eyes. She sees the confusion turn into horror, then utter relief, which slowly but surely darkens into outrage.

“You knew? Why didn’t you say anything? Do you know how much it hurt to think you had… well that you… especially when I’ve never…” Aly chokes up, her hand coming up to wipe away a tear that’s sprung out in the corner of her eye.

The last thing Aliya had wanted to do was to hurt Aly like this. For once, she is lost for words.

“I don’t know what to think anymore," Aly continues in a strangled voice. "Am I still nothing to you, Aliya? Just some girl you’re competing against at the Olympics? If that’s all I am, why did you even come over? Why are you still  _here_?” Her words rush out like an enraged waterfall. When Aliya remains quiet as a tomb, Aly challenges in a tight voice, “Do you have  _anything_  to say?”

It’s not that Aliya has nothing to say. It’s that the sheer amount she wants to say has completely overwhelmed her. Seda’s unintentionally piercing comment in the locker room the other day suddenly takes on a whole new clarity. Even if falling for Aly had come at the cost of years of confusion and pain, it had all been worth it. Being Aliya Mustafina, she was always going to have said the word ‘ice’ to Aly Raisman, no matter how many chances she was given to relive that moment. Everything beautiful and tragic that happened from that point on was meant to happen. Getting hurt was just part of it. 

While Aliya couldn’t muster the courage to give herself to Aly in quite the same way as before - the scars of the past are too deep, the fears of the future too real - the indestructible connection between them would never allow her to completely cut Aly from her life. It clearly doesn’t tolerate the possibility of Aly being with anyone else, either.

Of course, she can’t say any of this out loud. It sounds selfish in her head, because it is. This in-between world, where she wanted to keep Aly at arm’s length while not allowing her to stray too far, would only condemn them both to a torturous kind of half-existence, neither of them able to move forward with their lives.

A heavy tiredness submerges Aliya from head to toe. Seeing Aly’s face soften, then crease into a mournful frown, Aliya realizes the American is feeling the fatigue just as much as she is. “Aly, I’m sorry. For not tell you this sooner. I want… I wish for things to be like what it is, before,” she finally manages. “Before it hurt like this, always. But you, me, we have too much past. History that is too much, too heavy.” Are there even words to properly express in words the remorse bubbling up to the surface inside her?

Luckily, Aliya doesn’t need words. She’s never really needed them, not with Aly. The Russian’s deep regret shows in the way her eyes cloud over into iridescent pools of anguish, her shoulders slumping as if gravity is pulling on them a thousand times stronger than usual. Finally, she hears Aly reply quietly, “No, I understand. I get it.” The girl lets out a defeated sigh. “It’s not like I’m blameless in all of this either.”

The futility of their situation rises like a poisonous mist, choking Aliya and bringing small tears of despair to her eyes. Before they can roll down her cheeks, a sudden shadow of hope projects onto Aly’s face, catching Aliya by surprise.

“How about we start over? Wipe the slate clean,” Aly offers cautiously, scanning for Aliya’s reaction.

“Start over?” Aliya echoes uncertainly. 

Acting on either a stroke of total craziness or total genius, Aly suddenly holds her hand out, as if she’s greeting Aliya for the very first time. “Hi. I’m Aly Raisman.”

The Russian stares at her like she’s lost it. The emotional strain of everything must have finally broken her.

“Aly. I do not think - ”

“You’re Aliya Mustafina. I recognize your face. It’s the one that rarely smiles and looks like it wants to snap people in half.”

The iciness sets into Aliya’s features before she realizes she’s just proving the girl’s point. “I not ever snap people in half,” Aliya says stiffly, trying to rearrange her face into a softer expression.

Aly emits a chuckle. “Well, I know a girl who would disagree. She has a thing for jokes. Knock-knock jokes, to be exact.” With that, Aliya remembers the girl's long string of ill-fated attempts at getting her to appreciate her particularly lame brand of humor. “She would say it’s very hard to make you smile,” Aly continues.

A small grin twitches at the corners of Aliya’s lips. “This girl… she is American?”

“Yeah. I think you might even know her.”

The intimate memory of those words swirl around them for a moment, one of many gossamer threads tying them to days gone by. A sadness stirs inside Aliya. She hides it well. “Many years, and she still not know American joke is terrible. It is not my wrong they not make me smile.”

At that, Aly lets out a laugh that comes from deep within her. It’s a laugh Aliya has missed. A lot. Time ebbs and flows so easily around Aly - there’s rarely anything the girl says or does that doesn’t make Aliya feel that life is lighter and better. It’s why the barely perceptible smile on Aliya's face grows bigger, something that doesn't escape Aly's attention. 

“You know, judging by that smile… maybe American jokes aren’t as terrible as you think,” she suggests teasingly.

“Maybe not jokes make me smile. Maybe it is the American.”

They exchange grins. An extended, but not uncomfortable silence follows. If Aliya hadn’t known better, it’s almost like they’re flirting with each other all over again. 

“Aliya,” Aly finally speaks, her bright eyes growing serious. “Do you think we could maybe just be friends? People who aren’t crazy in love with each other, or aren’t crazy angry at each other all the time. Just friends.” 

Aliya hesitates. There was a bag of mixed feelings around being ‘just friends’ with Aly Raisman. For one, she didn’t even know if it was possible, let alone how it would work. But for now, it sounded like a feasible solution to their impasse. She knew she needed Aly in her life somewhere, even if it wasn’t going to be the same as before. Finally, the Russian gives a tiny nod. “Friends.”

Aly releases a breath. “Okay. Friends.” She repeats it, like a strange concept to try and wrap her head around. As they stand wordlessly facing each other, Aliya looks towards the winding footpath, realizing she’s been gone for too long, but unwilling to leave Aly just yet.

“You have to go?” Aly asks, sensing Aliya’s thoughts. She glances back towards where Eythora is still waiting. A crease appears in her forehead, making visible her uncertainty about what to do next. “Did you want to join us? Eythora and I were about to head back to the cafeteria.”

A hint of spite zips through Aliya’s mind at the mention of Thorsdottir’s name, but she firmly reigns it in. If she was going to get used to being friends with Raisman, she was going to have to get used to not being so possessive over her being around other girls, too. “No, I am already late. I must go. Please tell Eythora sorry…” Aliya struggles to articulate exactly what it is she’s apologizing for. “It is all mistake. When it is better time, I will say sorry myself.”

“Okay. Well. I guess I’ll see you around.” 

Aliya wonders if she's just imagining the reluctance with which Aly said that. She makes as if to turn around, but then promptly remembers something. “One more thing.” 

Aly's soulful eyes latch onto her. “Yeah?”

“Good luck. For today. I know you will be strong for your team.” 

When the girl breaks into one of her beautiful smiles that fills the entire space around her with a glow, Aliya is reminded of what the eighth wonder of the world is.

“Thank you. And good luck to you, too.”

Aliya wishes Aly would stop smiling now; she’s forgotten how incredibly distracting it can be. “No, it is okay.” 

Aly gives her a puzzled look. “No?” 

“Russia never need luck.”

The American laughs. “Well, we don’t need it either - I just said it to be polite.”

“Even you win, you will win because of Russia.”

“Why, because you and your girls are planning to hand us the team gold? That’s sweet of you, but we can take it from you just fine ourselves.”

Smiling, Aliya puffs out her chest. “No. Because floor music.”

Aly stops short, confused. “Floor music?”

“Da. Your floor music. Yablochko, from Glière’s Krasnyi Mak. And Kalinka. You think I not see you steal our songs? If you win, you will owe Russia for this.”

It takes awhile for Aly to abandon coming up with an acceptable comeback. “You might have a point,” she eventually concedes. Then, in a softer murmur, “I didn’t think you knew.”

There’s a drumming that starts beating against Aliya's ribcage.  _Of course I knew._ But she doesn’t reply, only gazes directly into Aly’s eyes for as long as she’s able to without feeling like she might drown in them, which doesn’t end up being very long at all.

No longer having any valid reason to stretch out their time together further, Aliya smiles one last time, excuses herself and turns to make her way towards the footpath. She notes with hidden pleasure the barely contained disappointment in Aly’s own goodbye.

As the Rio sun ascends higher above the calm ocean in the distance, Aliya squares her shoulders, her steady strides taking her closer to where teammates should be rousing themselves out of fitful, pre-team final sleep right about now. Despite the pressure of the upcoming day, Aliya feels light; a long-lost sense of rightness with the world has worked through and loosened every muscle in her body. Knowing she and Aly Raisman have found some semblance of peace with each other is surprisingly liberating.

Maybe this new alignment of things, where Aly Raisman is still part of her world, if only as a friend, might actually work.

_Friend._

Aliya sounds the word out in Russian.

What a strange concept to wrap her head around.


	8. Rio (Part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Author’s note: You guys are the best. Thanks for all the sweet messages and for sticking around! Love, Kai]

The second thought Aly Raisman has when the soft piano notes of Moscow Nights fill the Olympic stadium, is to tell herself to get a grip.

Her first was stolen away by Aliya’s poised steps into her starting position on floor exercise, some distance from where Team USA is tackling beam. She looked ready. Determined. Unassailable.

Aly really should be focused on cheering for Simone. But a tiny gasp escapes her when Aliya’s first pass comes up short, and the Russian has to quickly adjust her footing to keep from stumbling. Madison, who’s standing close by, shoots a questioning look at Aly. Thankfully, the bar champ’s attention is immediately caught by Simone’s unexpected wobble on her layout series, and she joins the rest of the team in yelling out for her to fight to stay on.

Concealing her distractedness is a struggle throughout the team final. Anticipation shivers down her spine whenever Aliya’s name blares through the speakers, or the crowd roars at one of her brilliantly executed turns. Aware of the dozens of cameras zooming in on her every expression, Aly has to constantly force her wandering gaze back onto her own teammates.

_Stop it. You’re one hundred percent here to support Simone, Gabby, Laurie and Maddie._

Even as she reassures a flustered Simone that her beam routine was fine, and mistakes happen, and it’s not going to affect the overall score, her mind remains fixed on Aliya.

_‘I know you will be strong for your team.’_

No one had taught Aly the art of leadership. It came naturally to her, an ingrained sense of responsibility and strong protective instincts lulling her into it. Still, remembering the Russian’s words from earlier today makes her heart swell a little, steels her resolve a little more. Aliya’s faith in her had survived. Even after everything.

Glancing up at the massive scoreboard, Aly sees that Simone’s newly added score means their almost insurmountable lead becomes even more so. She envelopes Simone in a big hug (”See! You did great!”), then pulls everyone in for a quick team huddle. She notes with satisfaction how much more relaxed they are, now that all that’s left is floor. But they can’t let their guards down. They need to focus, right through to the end. 

‘And that, ladies and gentleman, was the always elegant Aliya Mustafina, representing the Russian Federation!’ the announcer booms.

Well. Maybe she can afford just one more fleeting look at the Russian, now extending her arm out in a graceful wave to a roaring crowd, a pleased look on her perfect, perfect face.

Unable to contain her pride, Aly ducks her head down and smiles.

* * *

The second thought Aliya Mustafina has when the folksy Russian piece Yablochko starts up, and the crowd starts clapping along to the vigorous beat, is to make sure she doesn’t smile. 

Her first had been to suppress her pleasure at being reminded Aly had chosen not one, but two quintessential Russian songs to round out her competition. She ignores the eye rolls shared between Masha and Dasha. Seda, by contrast, flashes Aliya a toothy, knowing grin. 

The Russian captain bites her lip to keep from returning it.

With everyone else done with their rotations, the American team commands the attention of the entire arena with their boisterous floor routines. That means Aliya can drop her half-hearted act of being totally uninterested. She can watch Aly openly, admire the inhuman level of difficulty packed into her first pass, rejoice a little every time she sticks her tumbles. 

It’s almost commendable, the way the Americans are competing as if the gold isn’t already theirs. 

Aly’s confident third pass takes her into the corner where the Russians are grimly waiting, arms folded, nervous about whether their vault scores will be enough to overtake the Chinese. Hands thrown back, heart pounding, breath short, Aly somehow finds a split second to make brief eye contact with Aliya. Something lights up the American’s face; something that says Aliya watching this means the world to her. 

Aliya freezes, caught indecisively between breaking out an encouraging smile or keeping her cool. She can feel Masha’s incredulous look boring into the side of her head.

The American spins around to complete the final leg of her routine before Aliya can react either way.

_‘I didn’t think you knew.’_

Aly’s eyebrow-raising selection of music had, of course, been known to Aliya for some time. With a forced detachment, the Russian had dismissed it as pure coincidence. It meant nothing, she had told herself. But now, knowing it had been a deliberate expression of Aly reaching for a past that once included her... Now, the driving Russian rhythms of the American’s relentless floor routine mean something. They mean everything.

The stadium erupts again - Aliya hears chants of “Aly! Aly! Aly!” at one point, but she can’t be sure if that’s just her mind playing tricks on her. Then Biles steps onto the podium. She slays the whole thing. And before long, it’s all over. 

A rapid blur of celebrations follow, and a wave of sheer collective relief crashes over Team Russia. The culmination of years of hard work finally paying off brings almost all of them to tears. And amidst all of that, a tiny thread of happiness glows inside their proud captain, one that has absolutely nothing to do with Russia successfully bagging the silver.

* * *

 

The second thought Eythora Thorsdottir has as she watches Team USA jump off the podium after a rousing rendition of their national anthem, is to tell herself the lingering exchange between the captains of the top two finishing teams is completely normal.

She had brushed off her first thought, cloaked as it was in a strange, shadowy unpleasantness she had never felt before. Jealousy? No. She wasn’t that kind of girl.

Most people wouldn’t have picked up on anything unusual. Aly is careful to spend an equal amount of time shaking hands and congratulating each girl on the Russian and Chinese teams, her carefree warmth softening even the most stoic of expressions. Something hard to pin down takes place when Aly Raisman finally reaches Aliya Mustafina, however.

It’s the way their eyes meet long before their hands do. Every handshake before theirs just seems like a warm-up act to the main event. There’s a subtle, shy hesitancy between them; two partners united in presenting a friendly, but appropriately aloof front. 

The smiles reaching up to the corners of their eyes, though, say something different. Their interactions are odd in a way that would have been awkward, had they not come off so... familiar. Aliya leans forward to greet Aly with a kiss on the cheek, but she’s stopped in her tracks by the American’s outstretched hand. Instead of causing embarrassment, the cultural mishap sparks smiles from both gymnasts, as if it contains some secret significance. Aliya tactfully points to her left cheek, eyes lowered in silent laughter as a blushing Aly obliges. Aly then whispers something in Aliya’s ear that causes the Russian to chuckle, before giving the American a coy thumbs-up. Both remain oblivious to the mixed looks of dismay, amusement, or delight exchanged between their teammates.

It all takes place very quickly, but Eythora quietly notes and tucks these tiny odds and ends away. A tinge of sadness chips at her. It’s small enough that she can push it to the back of her mind, where it’s easier to forget.

* * *

 

Post-team final press interviews are dull and utterly unavoidable. 

Laurie doesn’t mind so much the repetitive, eye-roll-inducing questions on how she feels about missing out on the all-around finals taking place two days from now. Those are easy to bat away with platitudes about Team USA, doing Team USA proud, it’s all about Team USA. The heavy pieces of gold hanging around their necks are evidence that they’ve conquered all they set out to conquer, so the media can stop trying to squeeze drama out of this nothingburger.

She  _does_  mind that the allotted half an hour for interviews drags out to forty minutes, then fifty, then to a full hour. A giant analogue clock hanging over the foyer indicates that dinner time - grilled chicken time - looms ever closer. Meanwhile, the prospect of escaping the insatiable press grows ever dimmer.

Each team is huddled into partitioned spaces throughout the dark, sprawling indoor pavilion just outside the stadium. They are kept busy fending off a merciless barrage of flashing cameras and questions that really shouldn’t be asked. The Netherland girls to the left of the Americans are dealing politely, but uncomfortably with a reporter more interested in badgering them about their bright orange outfits than their flawless execution or historic seventh place finish. Team Great Britain, closest to the exit, shields Ellie Downie from inane comments about how her fall on beam might have cost her teammates a medal - a mathematical impossibility.

Laurie sighs. Even something as magical as competing in the Olympics is shadowed by an unglamorous underside. 

Firmly extricating herself from a buck-toothed reporter wanting to know if ‘it was unfair that Gabby got to try for the all-around final, and you didn’t?’ -  _seriously?_  - Laurie scoots out of the glare of the lenses. She needs a moment to reclaim some of the bliss of being an Olympic gold medalist, and let the craziness of it all sink in.

Finding an unoccupied patch near the center of the high-ceilinged room, Laurie closes her eyes to shut out the stuffy atmosphere, the harried yells, the thunderous murmur of a dozen languages blending into each other. She starts slowly tracing each of the five Olympic rings embossed into her gold medal with the tip of her finger, concentrating on how the coldness of the metal sends tingles through her nerve endings.

So this is what it feels like to have a dream come true.

“Laurie?” A timid voice calls out, abruptly pulling the girl out of her zone-out. An equally timid tap on the American’s shoulder follows. Spinning around, Laurie’s eyes come to rest on the last person she was expecting to see - Seda Tutkhalyan. A silver medal hangs proudly off the bright green strap around the Russian’s neck, a large bouquet of flowers clutched tightly in her hands.

“It’s you!” Laurie exclaims, pleasantly surprised. It strikes her as highly curious for the Russian gymnast to have made her way over to this side of the room.

“Da, I.” Seda grins at the enthusiastic greeting. Her previous encounter with the American has conditioned her somewhat to the energetic outburst. Still, nothing prepares her for when Laurie pulls her into an exuberant hug, almost knocking the wind out of the tiny Russian.

“Oh. Sorry... I think I might’ve killed some of your flowers. I’m just so glad to see you. And so happy that your team got the silver!” Laurie hurriedly steps back and points to the silver medal, then gives Seda a lively double thumbs-up.

“Flower is okay. And thank you,” the Russian replies. Her cheeks flush with embarrassment. “This,” she gestures right back at Laurie’s gold, “very good.” She makes as if to say something else, maybe something a bit more congratulatory than ‘good’, but struggles to find the words. 

Laurie beams at her. “Thanks! Honestly though, I’m glad it’s all over. Well I know there are event finals to go, but still. And for you, of course, there’s the all-around. You’ll be amazing. But for now, we can sleep. And party. Oh, and eat. Chicken!” She knows she’s rambling, but Laurie takes care to at least ramble at a slower speed. The girl grins widely, eyes twinkling, a sign their bonding over food had sealed a rare friendship that would last beyond these Olympics.

Laurie hopes maybe they can make it a second meal, when the media circus here is over and done with.

Seda opens her mouth to respond, but hesitates. She looks worryingly over her shoulder. Laurie follows her gaze to where the rest of Team Russia is still cornered by an obscene number of reporters. Her face falls. “Oh. Does your team know that you’re here?” She doesn’t add ‘talking to an American?’, but the question hangs in the air anyway. The last face-to-face confrontation with Seda’s teammates is still fresh in Laurie’s mind. She’s not particularly keen on a repeat experience. 

“They talk now. Busy,” Seda finally says when she turns back to Laurie, her thick, glitter-decorated eyelashes lowered apologetically, as if she too is remembering how haphazardly their last meeting had ended.

“But you’re not busy? You ran away from all the crazy people?” Laurie pumps her arms up and down in a running motion, swiveling her body towards the direction of the green backlit exit sign. ‘Crazy people’ is a technically inaccurate translation, but for a good section of the international press corp here tonight, it isn’t far off.

This prompts a bright laugh from Seda. “Run. Yes,” she nods, sheepishly. “Not like talk to...” Bringing her hands up, Seda mimics the motion of clicking a camera, making an annoyed face while she’s at it. 

Laurie sighs sympathetically. "Tell me about it. Me too.”

They stand there for a minute or so, each racking their brains on how to carry on this stilted, but very welcome conversation with limited common language. Laurie is the first to blurt out, “Is Aliya mad?”

Seda frowns in confusion. “Mad?”

“Mad, as in angry. Not happy.”

Still puzzled, Seda cocks her head to one side. “Da, I know ‘mad’. But why she is mad?”

“She seemed mad last time, um, when she saw us together. Will she get angry if she knows you’re talking to me now?”

Through a combination of worried expressions and Laurie pointing at the imperturbable Russian leader in the distance, then back at herself, Seda gets it. She shakes her head reassuringly. A tiny, impish smile appears on her features.

“Nyet. Aliya not mad.” Seda pauses for a moment, as if deciding whether to share what’s sitting on the tip of her tongue. “Aliya... She like American.” She utters this so softly, Laurie has to bend her head down to catch it. Even then, she isn’t sure she heard right.

 _She like American._  What does that mean? 

Wait. 

Laurie blinks, catching a peculiar glimmer burnished in the dark, expressive pools of Seda’s eyes. Like a switch flipping, the subtext embedded in that simple sentence makes her breath catch in her throat. “Seda. She likes Americans, or  _an_  American?” Her excited question spills over in hushed tones.

Seda looks at Laurie in alarm, visibly torn over whether she should say more. Luckily, she doesn’t have to. Her delayed response, and the way she flicks her gaze towards where Aly is explaining the unique team-bonding qualities of winning gold together, says volumes.

“Oh my god. So you know too!” Laurie’s hand flies to her face, stunned. “Aliya, she really...? Still? That makes both of them.  _Shit_!” She almost has to stuff her hand into her mouth to stop herself squealing.

Meanwhile, Seda takes a moment to come to terms with what she’s let slip. She’s relieved Laurie had been perceptive enough to pick up key non-verbal cues - technically, that means she didn’t give anything away. Right? In the end, the sight of Laurie gleefully bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet causes the Russian to crack a small grin.

“Shit, da.” 

A new determination sets in as the American explains, assisted by a flurry of animated hand gestures, that anyone with eyes could see the gravitational pull between their two team leaders. Seda concurs wholeheartedly: “And people with no eye, they feel. Here.” With a serious expression on her face, she puts a hand over her heart. 

Laurie resists the urge to hug her again.

Instead, she tells Seda about how she and Simone had noticed a weird spring in Aly’s step this morning. When their team captain finally spilled the beans about her conversation with Mustafina, Laurie had eagerly asked if that meant things with her old flame were back to... well, how they used to be...  but Aly had mumbled something about how they were ‘just friends and nothing more’. (“Da. Alka say this too. Just friend,” Seda says, with a bemused air of disbelief.) 

Laurie also relishes telling Seda about how Aly’s eyes were glued on Mustafina during most of the team final. At that, Seda laughs. Aliya had given up halfway trying to hide it. And almost bitten Masha’s head off with the fury of ten storms when she had dared to make a snide comment.

It was painfully obvious the two just needed more quality time with each other, away from the restrictive bounds of country and competition. But in a huge rambling space like the Olympic Village, and with so little of the Olympics left, that was never going to happen without a well-planned intervention. It certainly wasn’t going to happen if neither of them are going to make the first move. 

“Seda. We need to do something.” The longer they trade gossip, the more Laurie realizes the wildly simple plan Simone and she had cooked up might not be such a moonshot, now that Seda is involved. “They won’t stand a chance unless something happens. Unless,” Laurie lowers her voice, “we  _make_  something happen.”

“ _Zhdat_ ,” Seda holds her hand up worriedly. “This something, is what?” Understandably, the girl is more than a little apprehensive over what the American has in mind. She has to contend with the terrifying prospect of aggravating Aliya, should anything go wrong. Not to mention Masha, Dasha, Grebs, and effectively the entire Russian gymnastics establishment.

“It’s just to give them time to talk. We weren’t quite sure how to pull it off. I mean, bring Aly and Aliya...” Laurie brings both hands up and claps them together, and Seda nods in understanding. “And we have to do it soon. But now that we have you...” She trails off, grinning an infectiously wicked grin.

It doesn’t take long to sketch out for Seda what’s involved. There's some spirited miming and hilarious misses from Google Translate, but the idea is straightforward enough. Laurie had no doubt Madison and Gabby would be on board. The trickiest part would be to keep the rest of Team Russia - still wary of the Americans - unawares of the operation, but Seda promises she has that covered. Unlike Aliya, both Masha and Dasha would be sticking to strict training schedules until event finals were over; and Gelya knows very little of the whole affair, so will be easy enough to dispatch with.

It was settled, then. Dizzy with anticipation, Laurie takes in a deep breath. “We’re really doing this?”

Seda nods, all hint of hesitation gone. “Da. We do.” They seal their spontaneous conspiracy with a solemn hand shake. And then they giggle uncontrollably for a bit, imagining the uproar it would set off in the gymnastics world if the ultimate goal of their scheming eventuated.

The Russian has to leave soon afterwards, before her absence becomes too conspicuous. The torturous press interviews also come to an end, but sadly, Laurie’s wish for a delicious repeat meal with Seda isn’t to be. That night, they enjoy their frango no churrasco at opposite ends of the giant cafeteria, their teams rowdily celebrating their victories and graciously entertaining requests for selfies from other Olympians. 

The magnitude of their new shared mission, however, lessens the separation considerably.

* * *

It’s far too early in the morning to think about how best to respond to the friendly, unsolicited wave the male gymnast standing under a set of makeshift rings just gave her. Aliya guesses American - the red and white stripes from the torso down, and a garish sea of white stars on dark blue covering the top half of his sweaty workout leotard, are a dead giveaway.

Before she knows it, she smiles. And he smiles back. 

 _Chyort_. Aliya swears in her head. She hadn’t meant to. Her brain had reacted on its own, jumping from stars and stripes, to America... to Aly. Luckily, he’s far enough away that it wouldn’t be too rude to act like he doesn’t exist. She’s never had issues with appearing rude to strangers she has zero interest in, anyway.

Faint pre-dawn sunlight trickles lazily through the high placed windows, bathing the equipment in a hazy glow. The ungodly time of day means the practice gym - the very same one she had abandoned a helpless Aly in a few nights before - holds just her and the other gymnast. 

Aliya steps up to the bowl of chalk, sifting through the powdery substance with her fingers and breaking up the clumpy bits. She breathes in deeply, trying to banish all thoughts from her mind. 

An hour or so is all she needs today. Training exhaustively the day before a huge competition has never been her style. Instead, Aliya plans to have a hearty breakfast, then take a shuttle out with Seda and Gelya to explore Rio’s famed beaches. It had been a brilliant last-minute idea from Seda. 

Surprisingly, and over their coaches’ protests, the girl had insisted - Aliya standing supportively behind her -  that it was just the thing they needed before the all-important final tomorrow. Smiling to herself, Aliya speculates that her many lectures about not letting rigid rules define her might actually be breaking through. Seda was right. It would be good to get out of the Village, having only glimpsed the city’s lush scenery from behind the thick-paneled windows of a moving bus. 

Aliya pushes herself up onto the low bar, and quickly works up a mild sweat. As she runs through a simplified version of her routine, she remembers how everyone had said it was crazy to add the extra half-twist to her dismount so close to the Olympics...

... which is precisely why she did it. No one ever accomplished anything worth writing home about without taking a risk. 

Something feels off about her swing, though. It’s not the ultra springiness of the practice bars that’s impacting her rhythm. Nor is it her keen senses picking up on the fact that the American had stopped his own workout and was now standing there, shamelessly watching her train. 

No, it was her stubborn mind insisting on traveling a well-worn path back to Raisman.

It wonders what the girl is doing right this second. Probably still snuggled in bed, her wild strands of chocolate brown hair poking out in random directions, freckles barely visible under the first rays of a rising sun. A small, sweet smile turning up the corners of her mouth. The alluring picture of someone who keeps her feet planted firmly and humbly on the ground, never quite believing the praise heaped on her by the world is deserved. Someone Aliya wants to hold, and protect, and love and love and love, until that’s all that every atom in her is doing.

Aliya closes her eyes, trying to let the flow of her routine take over, willing herself to erase those images. They’re deeply rooted reminders of what it’s like to wake up next to Aly Raisman.

That one time, the morning of the day four years ago when she boarded a plane that whisked her away from the one person who made living and dreaming indistinguishable - that was it. She had never felt so incredibly lucky and unlucky at the same time, laying next to Aly on her bed, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. Wanting so badly to wake her, yet knowing it would be impossible to tear herself away if she did.

The Russian’s feet hit the mat in Rio, but her mind remains mired in London. Maybe waking Aly that morning - and realizing earlier that she was worth giving up everything for - was a risk she should’ve taken, but didn’t.

Leaning heavily against the bar, Aliya sighs dispiritedly. This whole being friends thing is harder than she had imagined. Hopefully, like everything else, it just needs more practice.

She suddenly spots a moving blur of red, white and blue out the corner of her eye. Her highly tuned intuition senses the American is about to saunter over and try to engage her in some pointless chatter. 

Time to go.

Aliya swiftly hops off the apparatus, grabs her gym bag from the bench. She doesn’t bother to unwrap her athletic tape; she can get to that later. Avoiding any further unintended eye contact, Aliya stealthily strides out through the wide double doors, and heads straight for the showers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Rio (Part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t supposed to happen, but Chapter 6 will have three parts. Some of you seem to prefer I release whatever I’m done with sooner, so trying it out this way :) P.S I wonder if there will still be any Thorsman shippers after this chapter

The second thought Aliya Mustafina has when it just so happens to be Eythora Thorsdottir entering the all but deserted locker room, is how she hates not being able to hate her.

The first had been replete with silent cursing. Lots of it.

She curses the twistedness of the universe. Of all the gymnasts in all the world, of all the moments in time, it had to be her and it had to be now. She curses the air of confidence Eythora totes around with her. Even when setting her oversized gym bag down onto the lacquered wooden bench, tilting her head to the side, and putting one arm over the other in a slow, relaxed stretch.

But most of all, she curses when Eythora turns at the sound of footsteps coming from the direction of the showers. Spotting Aliya, the girl’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. The Russian, freshly wet hair hanging down over her shoulders, is equally surprised. Eythora is the very last person she wants to be alone with. To make matters worse, Eythora greets her as if greeting a friend she hasn’t seen in years.

“Aliya, hey!”

Grudgingly, Aliya plasters what she hopes resembles a smile on her face.

“Hi.”

“I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here so early,” Eythora says, her dimpled grin designed to disarm even the most jaded person in the room.

If Aliya had tried to pick apart her demeanor in subatomic detail to find some flaw, some inconsistency, she would have failed. With a sinking heart, she resentfully admits the obvious: No wonder why Aly seems so taken by this girl. Genuineness is the currency of good, decent people. And Eythora has it in spades. Not to mention her English is freakishly, annoyingly perfect.

Pushing down her irritation, Aliya replies coolly, “Early is better. No people.”

“You just finished training?”

“Yes.” Aliya fervently prays that keeping her responses short and minimally polite will bring the conversation to a merciful end.

“Your team did so well to win the silver yesterday!” Eythora flashes that damn smile again. She unzips her bag and starts pulling out various items one by one - a large fluffy towel emblazoned with a golden lion and  _Welkom in Nederland_  in bold typeface, a sleek black training leotard, a roll of tape.

Aliya mutters her thanks. She knows she should comment on how impressive Team Netherlands’ performances were. She’s been following their dazzling rise with interest for quite some time now. She’s even looked forward to swapping notes on choreography and performance under the code. Instead, Aliya grips the straps of her bag tighter and makes a not-so-subtle move towards the exit.

“How are you feeling about the all-around tomorrow?”

Stopped in her tracks, a jolt of bewilderment shoots through Aliya. Her deliberately standoffish aura must really be off today. Either that, or Eythora is one of the rare few who are completely impervious to wilfully uncommunicative Russians.

“I am good.”

“Good… me too. I think.” Eythora sits down on the bench beside her bag with a sigh. “Good, but nervous.” She looks up at Aliya with unconcealed admiration. “I guess you know what that’s like. You’ve been in so many competitions and had so much success. I am a huge fan of yours. Does it get any easier? I mean, dealing with all that pressure?”

_Dear God._

Does it get any easier to constantly be expected to bear the brunt of responsibility for an entire national team, receiving nothing but low rumbles of disappointment from your own gymnastics federation in return? To be falsely accused of using injury as an excuse to slack off? Does it get easier to fall hopelessly for a rival American gymnast, to the strong disapproval of everyone close to you, only to have her break you, but somehow still keep an iron hold over you? To have the girl clearly chasing after said American unexpectedly ask you for advice?

Surprising even herself, Aliya manages to hold off her rising animosity by breathing deeply in, then out fast.

Aliya knows how to deal with mean, two-faced girls. Relishes cutting them down like a scythe through weeds. A veteran of Lake Krugloye, she’s been trained her whole life to do it, and do it ruthlessly. But dealing with this unknown quantity - a nice Dutch gymnast who is both an avowed fan and a serious rival in and out of competition - is making her head throb.

Can she blame Eythora for the fact that Aly is a walking human magnet? It’s not her fault she fortuitously crossed paths with the American in Rio, at a time when no one, least of all Aliya, has any claim over her.

_‘Do you think we could maybe just be friends? People who aren’t crazy in love with each other, or aren’t crazy angry at each other all the time. Just friends.’_

Like a trained assassin lowering a drawn weapon, Aliya’s readiness to wage war fades, bit by bit.

_Just friends._

Warily, quietly, Aliya answers, “Thank you. It not get more easy. Only look easy to people who not know how hard we train.” She allows herself to give Eythora the slightest of reassuring looks. “You not have problem tomorrow if trust body, trust mind.”

As soon as she speaks those words, the part of her that wants to keep fighting howls in dismay. She ignores it. Taking the high road means offering some kind of encouragement, elite gymnast to elite gymnast. It is the Olympics, after all. She had to at least pretend to give a nod to the floaty idea of 'international friendship'.

Eythora pauses thoughtfully, musing over Aliya’s words. She unscrews the top of a shiny red metallic water bottle she’s pulled out of her bottomless bag. A long sip follows. Then Eythora nods. She breaks into a huge, grateful smile. “Thanks so much, Aliya. I’ll remember that.” 

Minutes - they seem like years - of silence ensue, punctured only by the sound of Eythora rustling through a plastic bag that contains pairs of extra socks. At this rate, she’s going to pull out her entire wardrobe, wooden chest of drawers and all. Aliya seems to be the only one to sense the rising level of discomfort permeating the space between them. “Eythora,” she eventually forces out in a low voice. 

The Dutch girl stops unrolling a sock and glances up with curiosity. “Yes?”

“I am sorry. For yesterday.”

The confusion on Eythora’s expression almost breaks Aliya’s resolve to be cordial to the girl. She doesn’t want to have to repeat the apology, the speaking of which has left a nasty, nauseous aftertaste.

“Sorry? What for?”

“I am not good to you when… when you are with Aly in the morning.” Aliya swallows. The phrase ‘with Aly’ tastes even worse coming off her tongue. Like bile mixed with cheap, sour wine.

“Oh, that.” For a split second, it looks like Eythora doesn’t quite know how to react. But she recovers quickly with a smile. “Don’t worry. I wasn’t bothered by it.”

Aliya’s eyes harden into black stone. The way Eythora casually said that makes her one part uncomfortable, nine parts irate.  _Wasn’t bothered by it?_  Is she trying to be deliberately dismissive? She doesn’t get an opportunity to parse this out, because Eythora presses on, catching Aliya off guard again.

“Look. I don’t want to be too forward or anything-”

A cold prickle of dread runs through Aliya’s body. Too forward was about ten minutes ago.

“- but I wanted to…“ Eythora hesitates, searching for the correct word, “check? that you have nothing going on with Aly.” She pauses again, contemplating how to proceed. Her earnest, slate grey eyes lock onto Aliya’s. “If there is, I’ll step back. Just say the word. I’m not the kind of girl to come in between two people, if you know what I mean.”

A raging fireball of loathing engulfs Aliya whole, even as a tinge of guilt for being hostile to this genuinely considerate girl clips at her. She has to credit Eythora for being as gutsy as she is right now. Aliya knows exactly what she means. But who  _does_ that? Who lays out all their cards at once, giving the one person they know has every reason to take away the object of their desire the power to do so?

It turns out to be a genius tact, because something snaps. An answer instinctively rushes out, one Aliya can hardly believe when she hears herself give it.

“No. There is nothing.”

Saying that feels like swallowing blades. Blades, and fire.

“You’re not together?” Uncertainty, and a smidge of hopefulness, colors Eythora’s careful tone.

“No.” It’s surreal, almost as if her mouth is an independent and completely separate part of her, while her soul is screaming at it to take it all back and declare that no one,  _nothing_ , will ever be allowed to come between her and Aly Raisman.

The salving effect of that tiny, two-lettered word is obvious. Eythora isn’t even trying to hide her relief. She gives a shy, uneasy chuckle. “Thank you for even answering that. I know it was a stupid question.”

Aliya feels sick to her stomach.

The girl is far from stupid. Eythora had probably guessed - or maybe Aly had told her - that they had agreed to carry on only as friends. There might be feelings, strong ones even. But those feelings were clearly incapable of overcoming the fear of being the first to break that agreement. Fear and pride, magnified by a history of hurt, had pushed them onto two parallel tracks that would never meet. So long as it remained this way, a vulnerable space would exist between them, one that opened up opportunities for others to enter into the picture.

“She’s special, isn’t she?” Eythora’s question isn’t really a question, but the remarks of someone who can’t help but keep talking about a person they’re clearly taken with. 

There are worse things than continuing this conversation, Aliya thinks. Walking on burning coals. Tearing through tendons and bone. But it sure doesn’t feel like it right now. Nothing could possibly be worse. She forces the muscles in her throat to work. “Da. She is good gymnast.”

Eythora gives a small faraway smile. “She’s one of the nicest people I’ve met.”

Aliya reminds herself to stay calm. “There are many nice people.”

“Not like her, though.”

Reflexively, Aliya clenches her first.

_No. There is no one like her._

With another embarrassed laugh, Eythora glances at Aliya apologetically. “I’m sorry, I just… It’s good to talk to someone who knows Aly and doesn’t think I’m crazy for being so attached to a girl I barely know. My teammates think I’ve lost my mind.”

“They are right.”

Frowning, Eythora asks, “How so?”

“Two country, two people. It is never good.”

“I know it won’t be easy.”

“It is not about easy, not easy. It is about what is possible. And not possible.”

“I believe in trying for things that other people say are impossible. Isn’t that why we’re all here, at the Olympics?”

Aliya glares, eyeing the girl with a seasoned, but barely maintained tolerance. “What you are wanting is much different to Olympics.”

“I’ll take my chances.” Eythora finally breaks with her policy of not explicitly throwing down a challenge to Aliya. There’s no ambiguity about it now - her steady, unflinching gaze confirms that she isn’t going to hold back anymore.

With that made clear, there’s no longer any reason for Aliya to be standing there talking to Eythora. She can’t stay much longer, anyway. With each passing second, it feels like the freshly painted and scuffed locker room walls are collapsing slowly in on her. Aliya shifts her bag onto the other shoulder and gives the girl a terse nod.

“I am late to see my team. Good luck tomorrow.”

Eythora seems unsurprised that their exchange has come to an abrupt end. “You too. And Aliya?” She dips her head to the side, a somber expression etched on her face, as if acknowledging she had tested the Russian’s patience more than was perhaps warranted. “Thank you.”

As she strides out the doorway, Aliya feels weighed down by a weary sorrow, a distressing sense that she has somehow been outmanoeuvred. Once outside, she finds a wall to lean against. She gulps in mouthfuls of fresh air, trying to clear her head and if possible, expunge from her memory the last few minutes of her life.

If it had been a test of her resolve to be ‘just friends’ with Aly Raisman, she had passed. Maybe not with flying colors, but she had scraped by, the promise to not assert any deeper connection to the girl intact. Her fighting instincts to claim the American solely as hers, and hers own alone, no longer reign supreme.

She had done it.

Aliya hides her face in her hands, willing herself to hold back a sob.

Being ‘just friends’ with Aly Raisman is the most horrible feeling in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part III coming soon.


	10. Rio (Part III)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11k+ words. I hope this makes up for the wait. Thoughts, rants, feels, suggestions? Ask/share with me at gymwrites.tumblr.com :) Much love, Kai
> 
> Writing soundtrack to Chapter 6 Part III for those who asked: 
> 
> Tell Me - Sabrina Claudio  
> See the Stars - Melissa Polinar  
> The Very Thought of You - Tony Bennett/Ana Carolina  
> In Love Again - Colbie Caillat  
> Start - John Legend  
> If Only - Teeks  
> The Girl from Ipanema - Astrud Gilberto/João Gilberto/Stan Getz  
> Bom Dia - Jair Oliveira/Tabatha Fher  
> End of the Road - Stan Walker  
> Forever - Mariah Carey  
> The Only Exception - Paramore

The second thought Aly Raisman has when she sees Aliya Mustafina standing alone near the shuttle stop, looking stunning in a ruby red shift dress that cuts off just above her knees, her long, dark brown hair swept casually to one side, is that Wednesdays have always been her absolute favorite day of the week.

Her first had been to stop. And just stare. 

As usual, she was horribly late. Under an azure blue sky, Aly had jogged nonstop all the way from the far end of the Olympic Village. The manicured lawns were far more sprawling than anticipated. She was meant to have met the girls at the main shuttle bus stop for a rare morning trip as of ten minutes ago. 

 _Morning trip._ Aly still can’t believe it. Protracted begging from Laurie and Simone, and a hand-over-heart promise that they would be back in time for a final afternoon training session, had made Martha relent. Part of her suspects they had imported a look-alike imposter. The real Martha must be tied up somewhere, fuming. Had it been the last Olympics, their request would have landed them straight in the national team coordinator’s special hellfire for slackers, even with a team gold already in hand. Still, the thought of seeing Rio beyond the insides of the competition hall, the stale-aired conference rooms and the gardens preened within an inch of their lives, fills Aly with growing excitement. 

When she finally reaches the shuttle pickup point, she pauses to catch her breath. It’s a sad looking pole jammed into a square concrete block, a crinkled bus schedule haphazardly taped to it. Her forehead sports a sheen of perspiration, the fabric of her shirt sticking slightly to her skin. Her hair is a hot mess too. Aly glances down at her watch, then frantically surveys the scene. Surprise touches her when she realizes none of her teammates have arrived yet.

Then she sights Aliya in the distance, and her heart leaps over a cliff.

The girl is wearing an outfit whose sole purpose is to accentuate her curves in all the right ways. Her self-assured posture seems to proudly say she owns the very ground she stands on. She’s looking intently at her phone, smoky eyes cast downwards, unaware - or uncaring - that a world outside her exists. Someone unfamiliar with Aliya might think she was engrossed in a breaking news story about a shocking celebrity scandal, or studying how perilously close the world is to all-out nuclear war. But she could be scrolling through the dullest weather report, and she would still look like that. It's her tendendy to do everything with a fierce intensity - whether eyeing the lonely span of an 82-foot runway, or commanding the uneven bars to bend to her every will.

_What is she doing here by herself? How does she manage to look so good no matter what hour of day it is? Should I go up to her? She doesn’t look like she wants company. Anyway, what would I say to her? Oh God. I’m babbling. I’m babbling, and I haven’t even opened my mouth…_

Clustered loosely near Aliya in small, exclusive groups is an eclectic crowd of elite athletes also waiting for the shuttle bus. In the scrambled chaos of her thoughts, Aly picks out different countries from the insignia on their outfits and backpacks. Some Australians toss a fluffed-up tennis ball between them. A few Japanese are gossiping and joking around in their red-and-white tracksuits. A lone Italian waits silently to one side. Another country whose tricolor flag she doesn’t recognize. It’s not a large group, probably because there are still several days of competition left.

With a hint of pride, Aly also spots a few athletes muttering excitedly amongst themselves and pointing at Aliya. Gymnastics had grown rapidly in notoriety in the elite sporting world. As one of its most prominent luminaries, Aliya drew more attention than most. Her looks and immaculate eyeshadow, a provocative blend of charcoal and dark purple, don’t hurt either. Of course, no one dared come up to the Russian captain. No one was brash enough to breach the imperial wall Aliya had built around herself. She stood emphatically away from the crowd, shooting icy glares at anyone who looked like they were even thinking of introducing themselves to her.

No one bar Aly Raisman, that is.

Slowly, Aly circles her way through the athletes towards Aliya until she’s standing directly behind her. The crazy fluttering in her chest reminds her she’ll always feel like a nervous dork around the Russian. She coughs lightly, and opts for the simplest, shortest possible greeting to minimize the risk of any incessant babble.

“Hey.”

It takes half a breath - the longest half a breath Aly has ever known - for Aliya to snap her eyes from the screen and spin around at the sound of a familiar voice. 

The moment their eyes meet, the earth tilts over a little on its axis. At least, that’s what Aly swears happens. Every thought in her mind flies out the window, except the one saying this is the only girl - the  _only person -_ in the whole world who makes the air in her lungs get lighter and lighter until it dissipates in one sudden, painful instant. 

Surprise is visible on Aliya’s face. She opens her mouth to speak, but immediately clamps it shut again. The turbulent depths of her granite eyes cycle through a storm of a thousand emotions. A flash of pure joy morphs into slight anguish, then troubled uncertainty, then back to joy again. And threaded through this jarring mix of sentiments is a faint, yet profound sense of wariness. She seems happy to see her, but… not. 

Something inside Aly’s chest starts hurting a little.

“Is everything alright?” she asks, soft eyes searching the Russian’s face. Aly badly wants to get closer, to reach out a concerned hand and tell her that whatever’s going on, it’s going to be okay.

Several drawn-out moments pass before Aliya nods. The turmoil in her expression fades, like a dark veil has been draped over to hide it. She trots out a thin smile. “Da.”

Not knowing what else to say, Aly points shyly at Aliya’s red dress. “You look really nice.” Her voice comes out a little breathless, and she forces down a lump forming at the back of her throat. 

By way of response, Aliya sweeps her gaze down Aly’s plain, crumpled Team USA polo shirt, her even plainer dark navy shorts. The wardrobe of a girl who had woken up in the morning, shrugged and put on whatever tumbled out of the closet first. She notes the unruly strands of hair fluttering in the light breeze, and the bright, furry Cookie Monster keychain swinging from the zipper of her Team USA bag. 

The corner of Aliya’s mouth twitches, as if holding back a smile. “You look also nice,” she politely manages. 

A few seconds of awkward silence. 

Then Aly bursts out laughing. Aliya breaks into a proper grin - probably taking credit for not commenting further on the American’s decidedly disheveled state of dress. The heaviness of the moment dissolves, and Aly drinks in the dazzling warmth of Aliya’s smile. For the millionth time, she thinks how insane it is that someone can pull off being so, so perfect.

“What are you doing here?” Aly asks, as she tries unsuccessfully to smooth down the stubborn creases in her shirt.

“I wait friends.”

“Oh. Who are you waiting for?”

“Seda. And Gelya… Angelina.”

Aly smiles in recognition. “They did so well yesterday! And I’ve heard so much about them. All good things.” 

“Da. They are good girls,” Aliya says with a proud nod. “Seda is one saying we go…” Pausing slightly, Aliya frowns, tapping the side of her chin in search of the word. Eventually, she gestures towards the shuttle stop.

“Beach?” Aly offers. “For the sun. And the ocean.”  _Don’t get your hopes up, they’re probably hopping off at the international store…_

Aliya nods again. “Da, ‘bitch’.  _Plyazh_.” 

 _Oh my god. What are the chances?_ To help contain her delirious joy at discovering Aliya’s plans coincide with her own, Aly focuses instead on how she pronounces ‘beach’. A giggle escapes her. The Russian raises a questioning eyebrow. 

“Beach,” Aly repeats, grinning. “As in peach. Or reach. Not bitch, as in itch. Or witch.” She gently emphasizes the difference, noticing a little too much the cute wrinkle of concentration showing on Aliya’s brow. 

“I go to ‘bitch’.”

Try as she might, Aliya can’t seem to enunciate the difference between the two words, even after she directs Aly to repeat them several times. She rebukes Aly’s gales of laughter with a strong look of disapproval, but the glimmer in her eyes conveys crooked amusement at the American’s delight in her persistent mispronunciations.

“It’s okay. We can keep working on it on the bus,” Aly says reassuringly. This elicits a confused look from Aliya, prompting further explanation. “Laurie suggested we all go to the beach too,” she adds, shaking her head with a grin. “It’s always the babies of the team who come up with the good ideas, huh?”

Confusion turns into dismay. “You go also?” 

If not the unusual tightness in the Russian’s tone, it’s the evident alarm in her body language that signals something isn’t quite right. Aly eyes Aliya hesitantly, unsure of how to interpret her discomfort. “Well, normally I would be training, but the weather is amazing today, and our coaches never really let us out, so…”

“But your team not here.”

Scanning the crowd again for her strangely absent friends, Aly lifts her shoulders in a clueless shrug. “I wake up way earlier than they do, so they said they’d meet me here after breakfast. I don’t know where they are.” Without a second thought, she beams brightly at Aliya and blurts out, “But you’re here.”

The girl’s tepid reaction makes Aly regret letting those last words slip. Aliya purses her lips and averts her eyes, not speaking for awhile. Then she utters in a low voice: “It is not good we go together.”

The tiniest of cracks emerge on Aly’s heart. “What, why?” 

“Because. It is not good.” There’s no reason. Just a strange, cold panic that spending one more moment in each other’s presence would be a really bad thing.

It was only yesterday they had parted on friendly terms, even hugged and joked with each other after the team final. It seemed like they had found a comfortable shore to stand on, even if deep down they both knew a shared ocean of bittersweet memories would shadow them for the foreseeable future. Why, after all that effort to get past… well,  _the_   _past_ … does it feel like they’ve gone backwards again? Was Aliya worried her teammates wouldn’t approve? Had her coaches told her off?

As Aly starts fretting over what’s made the girl raise her defences (was it something she did? said?), Aliya’s phone vibrates. Reaching into the side of her bag to pull it out, the Russian scans it momentarily. An annoyed sigh escapes her. “They not come.” 

Aly is about to respond, when almost at the exact same moment, her own text notification sounds off. To her horror, it still blares the first few notes of the Russian folk song in her floor music. Aly instinctively throws an embarrassed look at Aliya. The Russian makes a kind effort to keep a straight face, although the way she fastidiously turns her gaze down to study her nails, as if they suddenly held the most fascinating secrets of the universe, makes Aly turn a shade of pink.

Her face reddens even more when she scans the rest of Laurie’s message. _'Hey Als! We all slept in and won’t make it on time. Don’t wait for us. I mean it. Don’t. Wait._ (Then a string of winking emojis.)  _Btw, if you bump into a certain someone, and I’m not saying you will, make sure you - ‘_

“Something is wrong?” 

Aly jumps at the question. For a second, she had forgotten Aliya is standing right beside her. “My team is late. They’re not coming either,” she says with trepidation, watching Aliya grimace at this. Whether it was disappointment at her plans to get out of the Village being derailed, or the fact that she’s stuck with her American counterpart, Aly isn’t sure. Either way, something strange is going on, and she would bet her life that Aliya will be furious when she gets to the bottom of it. 

But putting all that aside… they’re both here, aren’t they? Taking in a breath, Aly phrases the next question with the caution of a surgeon approaching a major operation. “Do you want to come with me to the beach anyway?”

Once, back in Boston, Aly had driven to the top of a hilly lookout with a group of thrill-seeking friends to watch ominous storm clouds roll in from the south. As a blanket of dark grey spread across the sky, mighty gusts of wind began whipping mercilessly at their faces, tearing through with a force seemingly capable of uprooting the few trees in the vicinity. It was then Aly had started doubting whether meeting the storm head on was such a great idea. She’s reminded of that moment right now. Except the cloud darkening Aliya’s face looks far more dangerous.

“You plan this,” Aliya says slowly, with dawning suspicion.

 _I couldn't plan my way out of a wet paper bag._ The wry thought floats to the surface of Aly's mind as she takes in the deathly quiet of Aliya’s words, the way she narrows her gorgeous eyes, the vexed energy with which she plants her hands on her hips. Add to all that the audacity of her scheming teammates, and Aly gains a sudden appreciation of the oddness of their situation. A helpless sort of laughter threatens to escape her. She wisely bites her lip and plays dumb. “Planned what?”

As if on cue, a minibus splashed from top to bottom with giant painted toucans and the bright, blocky green words ‘Welcome to Rio!’ roars down the road. It pulls noisily up to the curb. Everyone around them hurries to pick their bags up from the ground, eager to get going. An orderly line starts forming next to where the bus has ground to a halt, engine still sputtering. 

“This.” Aliya waves her hand rapidly back and forth in the empty space between them, then at the bus. She looks at Aly, eyes rimmed with disbelief.

Aly holds her palms up in defense. “How? There’s no way I could have known you were going to be here. Or that your girls wouldn't show up,” she lightly protests. She gets hit with an accusing silence that says  _I don’t know how, but you knew._

It’s adorable seeing Aliya struggle with the notion that someone might actually have gotten the better of her. At the same time, Aly is perplexed the Russian would assume she had anything to do with it. She makes up her mind to corner Laurie afterwards and demand she explain herself; explain how in the world she had managed to pull this off. She suspects it has something to do with grilled chicken... b _ut right now, grilled chicken isn't the point,_ she sharply reminds herself. Chances to spend time alone with Aliya are about as rare as meteors that pass by the earth once a century. 

She needs to go for this.

There’s just one problem. Aliya’s fear of the past had set in motion a difficult paradox. Overt attempts to draw closer to her would only push the girl further away; to tell Aliya how much she wanted her meant almost certainly not getting to have her. Aly shifts her feet, and clears her throat. “Fine. Think what you want.” Briefly closing her eyes, she makes a show of breathing in the crisp Rio air. “It’s such a beautiful day today. I’m not passing up the chance to relax at the beach.”

Aliya’s mouth tightens into a thin line. “Fine. I - ”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were scared.”

Aly watches Aliya’s jaw go taut.

“Scared?” The edge in her voice would slice through bone.

“Uh huh. Scared.”

“Of what I am scared?”

“Of me.” 

Ordinarily, the right time to start backing away from the terribly bleak stare being leveled at her would be now. But Aly pushes on in a painstakingly calm manner, holding Aliya’s glare with more confidence than she actually feels. “Maybe you’re scared of being alone with me, because you might fall for me again. Maybe you can’t handle that.” 

A spark of defiance - and maybe a little bit of fear? - is reflected in the girl’s otherwise hardened expression. Aly swallows, and continues, “Maybe you can’t handle just being friends.”

_I know I can’t._

For a moment, time is suspended on the end of a tightly pulled string. Aly’s heartbeat feels like it’s trying to wade through thick mud, the way it almost slows to a complete stop. Then Aliya abruptly takes a step forward, shrinking the distance between them considerably. Her chin is held high, her shoulders squared. She’s close. So awfully, painfully  _close_. A huge shiver runs down Aly, who has to summon every drop of discipline to not move a muscle, even though the part of her that’s nearest to Aliya feels like it’s bursting into flames.

“I say friend, we are friend. No problem.”

Her voice. Her impassioned pride, the proximity of it… An involuntary lick of her lips undermines Aly’s composure a little, but she holds her ground. “Well then, you should have no problem getting on this bus with me, right?”

The other athletes filing past them direct curious stares their way. They duck their heads and hurry along as soon as they catch sight of the Russian’s stormy expression. “American not scare me.” Aliya’s curt statement doesn’t really answer the question. Her two feet remain firmly rooted to the ground. 

A sliver of doubt pierces Aly. Maybe she’s bet on the wrong approach… Almost everyone else has boarded. It’s now or never. 

“I know.” Two soft, simple words are all that Aly lets herself respond with. They’re met with a flicker of surprise from Aliya, who had clearly expected the girl to keep egging her on. 

Miraculously, Aly manages to subdue the pounding urge to drop the whole act and beg Aliya to please just give them a chance. A chance to… well, she doesn’t know exactly what. Go to a place where they don’t have to maintain the appearance of two Olympic gymnasts who feel nothing beyond competitive respect for each other. Where for once they don’t have to constantly worry about raising suspicions from their teammates, their coaches, the world. 

With great reluctance, Aly tears herself away from Aliya’s conflicted stare. She hefts her backpack onto her shoulder, turns and steps resolutely onto the waiting vehicle.

* * *

“Bom dia! Welcome!”

The enthused greeting is lavished on her straight away by the driver. He looks not that much older than Aly. His jet black hair slicked backed with a mountain of gel. His sharply angled, unshaven face would be acceptably attractive by most standards. Wearing an official Rio Olympic staff shirt several sizes too small for him, collar intentionally turned upwards, he’s reminiscent of a high school jock on a mission to impress. He’s also friendly. A little too friendly. 

“What is your name, bonita?” Rows of teeth are flashed charmingly at Aly. The driver leans forward onto the large steering wheel, the aged leather upholstery in his seat making loud crunching noises as he does.

Desperately wanting to look back and check if Aliya is still there, Aly forces her gaze forward instead. “Aly. My name is Aly.” She doesn’t want to prolong this conversation any longer than is necessary, so she makes a move towards the seats. She doesn’t get far.

“Al-lee,” the driver echoes with a sweet smile. Suave and intentionally husky, his accent sounds like the product of a steady diet of Rocky movies. “Very nice name.” Noticing the flag stitched into her polo shirt, he nods approvingly. “American. And do you have boyfriend, Al-lee?”

“Excuse me?” Aly blushes a fiery red, mortified the rest of the bus is watching this conversation unfold with great interest. 

The driver chuckles. He introduces himself with the gusto of someone used to embarrassing girls in public. “I’m Nicolau. I born here in Rio, knowing everything about this great city. I can show you a good time.” With an affable wink, he adds, “Maybe later I show you my neighborhood. And we have a good Brazilian dinner.”

Before Aly can figure out a firm but polite way to reject his advances, or convey that a woman called Martha will figuratively - possibly literally - come after her with a meat cleaver if she ever ran off with a complete stranger mid-Olympics, she feels a formidable presence step up behind her. 

 _Is that…?_   Her heart tightens in her chest, not daring to believe it. 

“Problem?” 

It’s the most beautiful voice ever. Brittle as ice, an unmistakable, threatening tone masterfully woven into that one word. Blinding relief, mixed with gratefulness and an inexpressible rush of happiness, hits Aly at full blast. Stealing a quick glance back over her shoulder, she breaks out a huge smile, finally allowing the hope she’s kept chained so tightly to soar. 

It’s Aliya, standing protectively just inches away from her. She’s channeling the power of an irritated blackhole towards Nicolau, like she can’t even with his very existence.

His mouth drops open. For his sake, Aly prays he doesn’t say anything stupid. 

“ _Que guapa!_ ” Nicolau lays down a charm ten times thicker than before. “You are friend of Al-lee? Only thing better than dinner with beautiful girl is dinner with two beautiful girls.”

The air seems to still, the way it does seconds before a warhead is detonated. Aly feels an escalated hostility flare outward from Aliya towards the driver, then engulf his seat, the large steering wheel, the entire front compartment of the bus. It shuts Nicolau up, snuffing out the confident swagger present in his demeanor just seconds ago. If there was any thought in his mind to run his gaze appreciatively over Aliya too, it dies a quick and painful death. The intense discomfort of being silently skewered by the Russian compels Nicolau to look away in mild shock. It almost makes Aly feel sorry for him. Aliya clearly isn’t in the mood to tolerate stupid from anyone.

On the other hand, she’s missed this overly protective Aliya. A lot. Unexpected tears prick the back of her eyes. 

_Keep it together, Aly, for God’s sake._

Forcing out a light laugh, Aly hurries to defuse the awkward hush that’s permeated the entire bus. “No, no there’s no problem. Aliya, this is Nicolau. Nicolau, Aliya.”

Eyes still ablaze, the Russian couldn’t have been more disinterested. “I am last one,” she says, flippantly waving a hand behind her to indicate that no one else is in line for the shuttle. She snaps her gaze back to Nicolau with genuine distaste. “We go. Now.”

Without waiting for a reply, Aliya strides past the stunned driver towards the aisle. But then, as if checking herself and realizing she should probably add something to blunt the sharpness of her words because it’s the classy thing to do, even with someone she clearly thinks is an idiot, Aliya pauses regally. She turns. With absolutely no hint that she means it at all, she says to Nicolau in a cool voice, “Nice meet you.”

Nicolau shrinks back into the driver’s seat. He only barely manages to stutter that it’s likewise nice to meet her.

Aly suppresses shakes of laughter as she observes the jilted interactions between the two. Out of a perennially kind heart, she quickly thanks Nicolau for his generous offer, but tells him that unfortunately their tight schedules as elite competitors leave little room for other trips. It’s a shame they won’t be able to visit; she’s sure his neighborhood is lovely. He mumbles that he understands, and hopes she has a nice day. 

Aly walks down the aisle, almost all the way to the back of the bus, ignoring the whispers and weird smiles being exchanged among the other athletes. She stops at the two-seater where Aliya is already sitting, staring determinedly out the window. Wordlessly, Aly slides into the seat next to her. The girl doesn’t move or acknowledge her. But it doesn’t matter. Aly is reeling from happiness because Aliya chose to be here,  _right here_  with her. 

There are so many things Aly wants to say to her. Like how she didn’t mean to get her all riled up, she just doesn’t know how else to communicate that she wants more than anything to be with her, without scaring her off like last time. Or how she’s dreading the day the Olympics end, because that’s when even the chance to rile each other up will vanish, and she wants to make the most of their time together before then. Instead - 

“Thanks,” she says softly.

The Russian responds with the faintest of smiles, although she still doesn’t turn to look at Aly. She gives her signature shrug. “You are welcome.”

“I could have handled it, you know.”

“My way much quicker.”

The truth of that causes Aly to chuckle. “Yes. It’s also more brutal.”

The girl finally angles her head towards Aly, dark eyes questioning the unfamiliar word. The directness of her gaze makes Aly’s breath catch in her throat. “Brew-tall?”

“Um, like…” Instead of using words to explain, Aly brings one fist up and pretends to smash it into the open palm of her other hand. Understanding sets into Aliya’s expression. She lets out a silvery laugh.

“Sometimes you are too nice, Aly.”

Aly clasps her hands in front of her, twirling her thumbs reflectively. “Maybe. I just don’t like being mean to people.”

“You think I am mean to the boy?” Aliya asks dryly.

“No, you were perfect.” Aly means that so much, she has to control the slight waver in her voice as she says it.

It’s Aliya’s turn to blush. She quickly looks away, back out at the long stretch of palm trees lining the driveway that leads to the main entrance of the Olympic Village. “Maybe I am little too much,” she admits after awhile.

“No… If anything, I need to learn how to say ‘no’ to people more often.”

A wry smile graces Aliya’s face. “Maybe not you who need to learning how to say ‘no’.” She arches a demure eyebrow at Aly, as if to remind her of the reason why she’s on the bus in the first place.

The American shakes her head. “Trust me. Compared to you, I’m a total pushover.”

“Why you push things over?”

“A pushover is someone who gives in easily to what other people want. So they end up saying ‘yes’ all the time, even if they don’t want to.” Grinning ruefully at Aliya, Aly adds, “I guess that’s why I have you. To help scare off bus drivers I can’t say no to.”

The Russian sits quietly for a moment, deep in thought. “Aly, you are not so bad with saying no.” A wistful smile appears on her strikingly beautiful features. “That is why I not have you.” 

Though the incisive reply is softened somewhat by the half-teasing tone in which it’s said, it still tears a hole straight through Aly’s heart. 

The engine roars to life, filling the vacuous silence that takes over. As the shuttle lurches forward, they both get lost in their own thoughts. Both hurting in their own separate ways; both left to privately ruminate on what could have been. Both aware that while they sit inches from each other, an unresolved chasm - they’ve been calling it ‘friendship’ - still spans the space between them. 

* * *

 

The bus ride to Ipanema Beach takes almost an hour from the Olympic Village, much longer than what’s printed on the pocket tourist guide Aly has tucked away in her bag. And that’s completely fine with her. 

The first portion of the journey is spent in relative quiet. As sparsely populated hillsides slowly give way to colorful beachside residences, and the hum of the shuttle becomes meditative background noise, Aly savors just being close to Aliya. For years, her only way to remember what that was like was to shut her eyes, and draw on the faint echoes of the sights, sounds, and sensations from London she had stowed away, deep in the recesses of her memory. It never matched up to the real thing. Not even close. Now, all she has to do is be in the moment. This moment, in Rio. 

Of course, she never let herself reminisce too often, or too long. The memory of Aliya’s hand wrapped around hers, gentle and strong at the same time, would always give way to a sharp ache of loss; to a cold sinking despair that she would never feel that kind of oneness with anyone ever again. 

As she studies the smooth contours of Aliya’s face, Aly wonders if remnants of their past live on in her memory too. Or whether the passage of time, and the betrayal and disappointment, had dulled them until their effects no longer lingered in her present.

“Aly. You want ask me something, ask.”

It’s only then that Aly realizes she’s been staring too obviously. Aliya is looking at her with an expression that makes Aly think she knows exactly what’s been running through her mind. Flushing crimson at her own lack of discretion, Aly looks down at her hands. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…” 

“It is okay.” The Russian watches her expectantly. “So?”

Though she’s not about to ask Aliya whether she misses all the times they spent alone together… there is something else that’s been bothering Aly, ever since she impulsively traipsed her way to the Russian quarters. “I don’t want to ask anything you’re not comfortable answering,” Aly replies, testing the waters a bit.

A pointed look from Aliya puts an end to her hesitation. “If I not want answer, I not answer.” 

Of course. If Aly wasn’t so uneasy, the girl’s matter-of-factness would have prompted a laugh. “Okay… I guess… well, when we stopped talking, or you know… I did… is it true - ” Aly falters, suddenly unsure of herself. “Is it true you started drinking?”

“Drinking?” Aliya sounds amused. “Russian is born drinking. To live is drinking.”

“I mean, serious drinking. Maria said… She said you started drinking, every day. Unless,” and Aly falls over her words again, “she was making that up too?”

The moment that follows drags out for so long, Aly is afraid she’s gone too far. She berates herself for being so selfish; for bringing up a painful memory, just to allay the guilt that’s been clawing at her since discovering how truly badly she had hurt Aliya.

Eventually, the Russian exhales heavily. “Yes. It is true.” She looks at Aly, a ragged weariness seeping through. “For almost one year. I not knowing what I do with myself.” A dry chuckle follows. “Now I know even Russian have  _predel_ … how to say, when you thinking you can take this much, so you taking more and more. But in the end, you are really not taking, but giving, and losing everything that is yourself.“

Her words absolutely wrench Aly’s heart. It’s doubly painful when she hears in them a detectable tinge of shame. How desperate, how hopeless must it have been for someone as strong as her to have gone down that path?  “God, I’m so sorry,” Aly whispers, her voice breaking. Tears start to well in her eyes. If she had known… 

Aliya shakes her head. Nothing in her expression suggests she holds the American responsible. “In Russia, we saying sorry only one time. You say many times already. That is enough.” 

Her understanding only makes Aly feel worse. “But it’s my fault.“

“It is me who choosing to make mistake. I should being better.”

“I know, but - “

“There are many other things too. My coach, Alexander, he - “ Aliya cuts off, not wanting to relive the details. She waves a hand dismissively. “Many hard things with family also. It is not only you.”

Aly had known about the drama around Aliya’s coach, followed it closely in the news. The worst thing isn’t hearing these things directly for the first time. It’s that she’s four years too late to do anything to help her, to go through it all with her. “I should at least have been there for you.” She looks down at the floor of the bus, feeling choked up. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“One time is enough.” The firmness in Aliya’s tone makes Aly go quiet. Still, a heavy remorse weighs down on her.

Maybe Aliya senses it, because the next thing Aly hears is her name. It’s spoken with a kind tenderness that wraps around her, urges her to look up. When she finally musters the courage to do so, she sees in the girl’s eyes a genuine forgiveness; a touchstone from which they can start to properly heal from all the hurt, tears and grievances they had ever held against each other.

Thousands of sparkles reflected on the ocean water’s surface draw nearer and nearer as the shuttle winds through a lively thoroughfare towards the famed Ipanema Beach. It’s a breathtaking picture of unspoilt natural beauty. But the prospective joy of running her fingers through warm, sun-drenched sand, or swimming freely in the boundless expanse of the South Atlantic Ocean, suddenly pales in comparison to the lightness Aly feels spreading from her chest to the rest of her body. It’s a lightness she hasn’t felt in a very, very long time.

“Is it true you learning Russian?”

The sudden change of topic is so jarring, Aly isn’t sure she heard right. “Did I learn Russian?” she repeats dumbfoundedly.

“Da. The letter you writing.” Aliya grins at the memory. “You do this, alone?”

“Oh.” Aly lets out a low, embarrassed laugh. She’s pretty sure everything about the letter she had read in the gym that night - the grammar, her pronunciations and of course the way it had basically precipitated Aliya running away from her - was disastrous. “I had a lot of help from my Russian-English dictionary. But yes, I did try to learn. I mean, really only the easy stuff.”

“I will saying something in Russian.”

“Okay, just so you know, I’m still really bad at - “

“ _Ya ne glupa ya,_ Aly.” Aliya says it slowly and seriously, but the glint in her eyes betrays an animated excitement Aly hasn’t seen from her in awhile. “ _Ponimayesh_?”

Aly blinks. Then it clicks. 

_”And how do you say ‘stupid’?’”_

_“Gloo-oh-peh.”*_

It feels like it was just yesterday that they had sat together on the grass in London, and laughed over her not-so-subtle attempt to insult the Russian in her own language. Aly feels her heart start to throb wildly. 

“ _Da, ya ponimayu._ ” Yes, she understands. Her few stumbling syllables are accompanied by a bashful smile. “And I know you’re not stupid.”

Clapping her hands in obvious glee, Aliya exclaims, “ _Ona! Eto ochen horosho._ ”

“Whoa, okay slow down!” Aly laughs. “I’m not that good yet.” 

The Russian frowns in thought. “How you are learning?”

“Mostly through online classes, and some really old textbooks my mom had lying around.” Aly wrinkles her nose. “As you can probably tell, that’s why I’m still horrible at it.”

“Why not finding Russian girl in America to help you?”

“No way.” 

The fierceness of her response is rewarded with a satisfied look on Aliya’s face. “Why no?”

“I just couldn’t,“ Aly says. “It’s really hard to meet Russians back in Burlington,” she explains lamely. Actually, it’s probably not, and even if it was, there’s this thing called the internet… She just can’t say out loud that being around another girl who even remotely reminded her of Aliya would have driven her crazy. So she had avoided it like the plague.

Aliya’s gaze softens. “ _Kak tolko vash, vsegda tvoj,_ ” she murmurs softly.

Curious, Aly meets her eyes. She wishes she had learnt more of the language. It’s almost as if Aliya lets loose more when speaking in her native tongue. “What does that mean?”

Looking out the window to delay answering, the girl takes a moment to admire the long stretch of white sand pulling into view. She smiles a cryptic smile. “When you seeing your Russian-English dictionary, you can know.”

* * *

 

The second thought Aliya has when Aly points excitedly to a cafe teeming with people and starts regaling her with a story about how the most famous ever bossa nova song was written there, is that she has to be careful. Each passing moment adds to the gradual inundation of her heart by an achingly familiar glow. It’s wonderful, and it’s terrible, and she fights it, even when she knows she has absolutely no control over it.

Instinctively, she doesn’t  _want_  to be careful. Being with Aly feels like being able to breathe for the first time since London.

It didn’t take Aliya long to stop being irritated over how the girl had somehow tricked her into going on this trip. She’ll never admit it, but Aliya had known, even before Aly had begun her shameless baiting, that she wasn’t going to pass on a chance to be alone with her.

The shuttle drops them off on a crowded boulevard, just a few hundred feet away from shore. As they walk together towards the beckoning swell of the open ocean, the rays of the morning sun fall on them with a fierce warmth. Depending on the angle at which they strike Aly’s face, Aliya notices how her complexion would change. One moment, they bring out the attractive freckles that wander across her well-defined cheeks. In another, her skin radiates a breathtaking, sun-kissed color.

At least she’s much better at hiding her stares than Aly.

The American’s anticipation heightens the closer they get to the beach. It shows in the extra bounce in her steps, in the quickening tempo of her sentences, in the adorable grins she would direct at Aliya whenever they passed something new and interesting. Then in the gasp that escapes her throat and makes her stop so abruptly that Aliya almost crashes into her.

“It’s that cafe! The one where Carlos Jobim and Vinicius de Moraes wrote that song! Oh my god, my mom would flip if she saw this!”

The speed of her words makes them difficult to grasp in the first instance, but Aliya is preoccupied with another matter entirely. While her quick reflexes had prevented a full on body collision, she’s now so perilously close to Aly, there’s a small fire that’s ignited in her veins, and a shrill voice in her head saying she really didn’t need another reminder that this is the only girl - the only  _person_  - in the whole world who can make her feel like she’s losing her mind, and have it be a good thing.

So overwhelming is the siren in her head, Aliya only hazily detects that Aly has taken out her earphones and is offering one side to her. She automatically takes it, casting her eyes down to watch the girl scroll through her playlists in search of the song she’s been raving about, ‘The Girl From Ipanema’. Aliya thinks she’s heard it before, or at least a cover of the original by a Russian singer. Something catches her eye that makes her completely forget her inner turmoil for awhile.

“Wait.” 

Aly looks up from her scrolling. “Hm?”

“Go back.” Pointing to Aly’s play history, Aliya taps on the screen to bring up what had flashed up on it just seconds before. A look of wonder crosses her face. “Russian pop song?”

A deep blush spreads from Aly’s neck all the way up to the tips of her ears. Aliya’s grin widens. There’s a faint pounding in her ears, a quickening heartbeat crying out ‘Aly’ over and over and over. As Aliya runs down the list to comment on her selection of music, she notices Aly turning just about every possible shade of red. So she hands back the phone, carefully composes herself, and simply gives Aly an approving nod.

“You are choosing much better songs now.”**

* * *

 

It’s surprising, how much the American knows about the city. 

As they continue making their way to Ipanema Beach, Aly enthusiastically points out a newly renovated colonial-era church. She also tells Aliya about the rich historical significance of the black-and-white tiled sidewalks they might get to see in neighboring Copacabana.

Aliya tries hard to listen. She really does. 

Normally, she would have been fascinated by the symbolism of the black and white waves formed by the tiles, representing as they do the contentious, intertwined history of Europeans and Africans in Brazil. These are interspersed with pockets of red, which represent the indigenous peoples of the land. But the more serious the topic under discussion, the harder it is not to focus on the mesmerizing movement of Aly’s lips, rather than how she articulates genuine sadness over the way violence overshadows the founding of so many societies. Or expresses a desire to find a local guide when competitions are over so they can learn more.

“What do you think?”

Her voice jolts Aliya out of her thoughts. “What I think what?”

Aly gives her a funny look. “About the story behind that stone plaque. That one you just stepped over.” The girl points downwards. It’s then Aliya realizes they’ve been walking on an avenue lined with plaques marking milestone events in Brazil’s checkered colonial past. Thinking quickly on her feet, Aliya adopts a solemn tone. “It is sad. And complicated.”

That seems to satisfy Aly, who nods and settles into a contemplative silence again. Aliya resolves to shed her distractedness right then and there. But everything Aly does blocks her at every turn. It’s like the girl is on a one-track mission to prevent Aliya from ever forgetting why she had fallen for her so hard, so completely. 

When they pass one of the numerous fruit juice bars scattered along the promenade a mere street away from the beach, Aly eagerly suggests they try a local drink made from a berry called ‘acai’. Apparently, it’s the secret behind why the Brazilians are so very attractive.

“I read somewhere that it makes you more beautiful. Of course you don’t need any extra help in that department, because it’s not possible for you to be more perfect than you already are, and it’s not like a drink can really make people beautiful anyway, at least not in any way that matters, but it’s kind of a cool story the way people discovered it, and - oh, shut up Aly." The girl blushes. "I mean, do you want to try one with me?”

In the past, the best way to put an end to the girl’s rambling has always been to plant her lips squarely on hers, but Aliya is trying extremely hard not to think about doing that right now. She nods firmly. “Da. We should trying this.”

The American goes to buy an acai juice from a jovial, bearded juice bar owner. Or at least she tries to, because he insists she keep her money when he notices the Rio Olympic logo on the bottom of her shirt, inquires about the accompanying American flag, and through a string of animated questions finds out that she’s an Olympic champion. As soon as Aly cheerfully points out that he’s actually serving two Olympic champions, the owner gives a thrilled shout and disappears out the back of the store. He reappears with someone Aliya assumes to be his wife.

She’s a shapely, boisterous woman. Her luminous, frizzy hair is kept off her face by a fluoro pink headband. Bouncing a gurgling baby on her hips, she strides out excitedly from behind the counter to speak with them. She tells them in broken English how she knows in her heart that her nine-month-old daughter is going to be an Olympic boxing champion one day. But could they, just in case, hold her for a little while so that some of their good fortune and success might rub off on her?

Aliya offers to take the baby. Not because it will result in any magical transfer of powers, but because its pudgy little arms are already reaching out towards her. Not all babies are irresistibly cute, but this one is. As Aliya hugs the child to her chest, she lets Aly do all the talking. She smiles in agreement when the American congratulates the parents on having the cutest ever daughter. Aly assures the woman there’s nothing to stop her daughter from winning all the things when she grows up. 

It’s when Aly bends down to play peek-a-boo with the delighted bub that Aliya starts imagining what a little mini-Aly would look like. She would definitely have those mischievous big brown eyes that always look like they’re laughing at something. But would her hair color be more a midnight brown, or a softer brown, like Aly’s? And what name would they choose for her? Maybe something beginning with an A… 

_Stop, Aliya. Just stop._

The bearded man hands Aly a giant cup filled with what looks like dark purple sludge topped with a generous scoop of muesli. He then grabs a plain white napkin and a thick black marker, and politely requests if they might both sign it. Aliya gently hands the baby back over to its mother to oblige, laughing when Aly notes that the iron grip refusal to let go of her fingers might indicate a bright future as a bars specialist.

As soon as Aly adds her own signature, the owner proudly proclaims to the other customers waiting in line that he’s going to frame it as proof that out of all the hundreds of juice bars, his is the one Olympic champions chose. Her cheeks glowing, Aly thanks them for the drink. She signals to Aliya with her eyes that it’s probably time to get going before the small crowd gathering around them grows any larger. Aliya concurs, a barely perceptible smile playing across her face.

Back out on the sidewalk, Aly lets out a breath of air. She grins at Aliya. “So, that was interesting.” She points to the cup she’s got in her hand. “Want to try?” When Aliya motions for her to go first, Aly takes a large sip. Making an intrigued face, she offers it to Aliya. “This is interesting too.”

The Russian uses the straw to stir the thick purple liquid for a bit, before having a taste. It has an extremely subtle flavor that gets overtaken by a strange aftertaste - something like a cross between milk chocolate and ripe prunes. 

“It’s really nice, but a bit too…” Aly searches for the right word, “… strong,” she finishes, just as Aliya pronounces, “Not much taste.”

They glance at each other, and crack up at the exact same moment. 

Aliya’s heart pounds.

_Stop._

Rio is beautiful.

She’s beautiful. 

Somewhere between rounding a corner and witnessing the magnificent, shimmering ocean and spectacularly pristine beach materialize before them, it doesn’t feel like they’re here to compete in the Olympics at all. There’s no hint of the pressure, the weight of expectations on her shoulders, the dread in her stomach that her worth depends on where her name ends up on the scoreboard.

Somewhere between Aly speaking more Russian - not just words, but actual sentences - and Aliya correcting her while trying not to die from laughter, because the American says ‘I have soap sandwiches in my hair’ instead of ‘I have cheese sandwiches in my bag’, it feels like the world becomes brighter and sharper, its colors more vivid and intense. 

Somewhere between the girl playfully chiding her for being mean, and then suddenly grabbing her hand to stop her from walking onto a tiny jellyfish that’s half buried in the sand, Aliya Mustafina realizes something with a sharp pang.

She has never been more in love with Aly Raisman than she is right now.

* * *

 

“Is that Anna Karenina?”

They had settled on a less occupied part of the beach, away from the sea of large cherry red umbrellas people rent for a few dollars an hour to get some respite from the sun. Aly is relaxing on a large towel - a Team USA one, of course - while Aliya sits next to her, having just pulled out the novel from her bag.

Surprised, Aliya looks up, impressed. “You can reading Russian writing?” 

“I can pretend like I can read it,” Aly replies. “I just assumed, because the ‘A’ sort of looks similar to ours. Also,” she grins and points towards the spine of the book, “It’s written in English right there.” 

Aliya flips her book on its side, and sure enough, ‘Anna Karenina’ is printed right at the bottom in the smallest of letters. She smiles. “I have not seeing that before.”

“How many times have you read it?”

“Many, many times.” 

“I’m not surprised. It’s an amazing read.”

“You have read before?”

“Just once. And it was a translated version of it, so I’m sure there are things in the original Russian that I missed. It’s sad in some parts, but I guess that’s what makes it so powerful. It reminds me of gymnastics.”

Aliya lowers the book, her curiosity growing. “How?”

“Hm,” Aly takes a moment to gather her thoughts. “It’s about a woman caught between an old, strict order and a new, more free one. She’s passionate and smart. Determined to live life by her own rules. But in the end, the pressure to fit into both worlds becomes too much for her. It’s like she needs to be independent, but she also needs to be accepted by a society that doesn’t want to give her that independence. And that ends up breaking her.” Aly pauses, but the captivated look on the Russian’s face encourages her to keep going.

“If there’s any system that puts the old against the new, it’s gymnastics,” she continues earnestly. “We work under a super strict code and elite program that’s designed to break us down. The ones that survive are those who manage to find little ways to express themselves, even with all that. You and me, we’re here in Rio because we fought through the system. But I know of so many girls who had way more talent than me, who couldn’t go on because they weren’t given the support to be themselves, to just have fun one every once in awhile.” A small, guilty grin appears on Aly's face. “Or to laze around on the beach in the middle of the Olympics and drink purple stuff.” 

Aliya nods, gripping the edges of her book tightly. “I know also.”

Aly props her chin on her hand, her eyes clouding over, the grin slipping from her features. “Sometimes it keeps me up at night. I lie awake, thinking that if I hadn’t been born into a life where my coach respects me, my parents keep me sane, and my friends remind me who I am… I would totally have been one of the broken ones.” The pained, faraway look in her eyes is something Aliya knows too well. “It’s a horrible mix of fear and being grateful. It shouldn’t be that way, but all elite gymnasts know the feeling. Like maybe what I’ve achieved is really just because of luck.” 

Aliya sits back, stunned. She had read Anna Karenina at least ten separate times. It never occurred to her that it could be applied to the sport that had consumed her for as long as she can remember. She needs something - anything - to distract from the sudden swell of emotion flooding through her.  _How someone can just get to the heart of the matter like that?_  If only she could say something profoundly comforting, to tell Aly that she’s one of the strongest and most talented people she knows. That she’ll never have to worry about being broken by the system. Instead, realizing that this girl might be the only person who ever truly got her scares the hell out of Aliya. So she blurts out, “You want go for swim?”

Aly lifts her head, replacing the melancholy with the brightness of her smile. 

“I thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

 

They’ve been trading stares all morning, each trying to get away with looking at the other without being caught. It’s clear Aliya is far better at it than she is, so Aly largely gives up concealing her inability to  _not_  stare. Especially when the girl is sitting less than a foot away. 

A tiny towel is wrapped around Aliya’s shoulders. Droplets of water roll down over her toned arms and body. She’s gazing steadily out at the waves swelling and crashing on the shoreline, observing several surfers paddle on their stomachs to meet them head on. Eventually, Aly has to look away. Staring too much almost… hurts.

For awhile, she closes out the physical world and simply soaks in the peaceful soundtrack of a relaxed Rio day out. The distant calls of birds, occasional hints of spoken Portuguese carried on by the wind, the thumps of a beach volleyball being served and returned. A few minutes later, the sensation of Aliya watching her brushes the edge of her consciousness. She pops open her eyes just in time to catch it, and grins.

“What is it?”

Going red, Aliya quickly looks away. “Nothing.” Just then, a strong breeze blows in from the coast. She shivers, and tries to pull the towel tighter around her.

“Are you warm enough?” Aly glances over at the Russian, concerned. “Here, I have something you can borrow.” She promptly reaches for her backpack to unzip it. A Team USA jacket emerges in her hand soon after.

Aliya eyes the jacket. She makes a disgusted noise at the back of her throat. “I die in cold before wearing that.”

A burst of laughter escapes Aly. It cuts short when she realizes the girl is dead serious. “Come on,” Aly asks incredulously. “You’d really die before putting on something that just happens to have the American flag on it?”

“You will wearing Russia jacket if I give you?”

“Of course. Between that and freezing to death, I’d take it.”

Aliya sniffs disdainfully. “We are different. We have pride for country.”

“Hm.” The corner of Aly’s mouth lifts in amusement. “You know what else Russians are proud of? Being able to take the cold. But for someone who spent most of their life in Moscow…” Aly lets the teasing sentence hang, unfinished, in the salty beach air.

She senses the silent, savage stare Aliya is throwing her way. She smiles. It charges her with an inexplicable warmth. Makes her happy. Nonsensically happy.  _God, I’ve missed that stare._

Tossing the jacket down onto the top of her bag, Aly tilts her head questioningly. “How about I just sit closer? Body heat helps.”

Aliya raises a suspicious eyebrow.

“Unless of course, you’re too scared.”

The Russian expels a sharp sound of disbelief. “Aly, you know you cannot using this anymore.”

“I’m going to take that as a yes.”

* * *

 

It’s been one hour. Maybe two? Aliya has lost all track of time. She only knows talking to Aly is the most natural thing in the world. It makes her happy.It feels like freedom, if that wasn’t so odd to say. It doesn’t matter whether they’re hungrily catching up on every major event that’s happened to them in the last four years, or when Aly sympathetically listens to her recount the entire debacle involving Alexander and the Russian Gymnastics Federation. Or when they discuss a strange American show called ‘Dancing With The Stars’.

“You watched it? Oh god.”

“Da. It is Tanya’s idea.”

“You watched it with Tatiana Nabieva?! Oh my god!”

“We watch it only one time.” Aliya observes Aly groan and bury her face in her hands. It’s extremely entertaining. “You not like being on show?”

“No, it was great.” The girl’s words come out muffled and small. “I had lots of fun learning to dance. It’s just - ” 

“In America, to throw fruit around is called dance?” The question is posed with calculated diplomacy.

Aly's head snaps up. “Of course!” she exclaims, wringing her hands in dismay. “Of all the weeks you could have watched, you chose to watch  _that one._ _”_

Aliya shrugs. “Tanya say it is best one.”

Another groan. “Please kill me now.”

“What do you call this fruit? Big, with long sharp things at top?” inquires Aliya, innocently.

“Pineapples. I danced with pineapples. Big deal. Can we just move on? Let's talk about - ”

“Pineapples,” Aliya repeats the new word, feeling it roll satisfyingly off her tongue as Aly makes a pained expression. With a straight face, Aliya adds, ”Most of Russian national team think fruit dance is cute. Very bad, but cute.”

“The Russian national - OH MY GOD!!”***

* * *

 

Another hour passes. 

That’s when Aliya Mustafina puts her foot down. She determines that Aly Raisman can only ask three more questions.

It’s not that she’s wary of the dwindling time they have left before they need to head back to the shuttle bus. It’s that her heart starts wanting to go on forever talking to Aly. And once the heart starts wanting forever, it’s only a matter of time before a part of it breaks off and becomes their’s. It’s a part of you that you don’t get back - particularly if it flies home to the United States, never to be seen again. So before that happens, she acts to limit the questions that keep extending their time together. Three seems reasonable. Not overly paranoid, but not too generous, either.

“Okay, fine. Let’s see.” Fortunately, Aly chooses not to argue. The Russian had carefully calibrated the determination on her face to discourage any protests. She watches Aly mentally sort through which questions to prioritize. There has to be at least a dozen of them floating around in that curious head of hers. It takes her so long to verbalize any, Aliya has to clear her throat to nudge the process along. 

“Okay, I’ve got one.” The sudden tension in Aly’s brow shows her apprehensiveness, and Aliya feels a knot start to form in her chest. “Did you… I mean did you ever - " The girl pauses mid-sentence, giving Aliya a half-panicked look. She averts her gaze, down towards the grains of sand below. And suddenly, Aliya knows what the question Aly can’t bring herself to ask is. 

“No,” she says adamantly.

Aly glances sharply up at her. “How did you know what I was going to - ”

“I know you,” Aliya interrupts again. She cuts through the girl’s surprise with a knowing look. “You want to know if I being with anyone else after you.”

Aly blushes, her fingers straying to fidget self-consciously with the edge of her towel. “You must have at least dated other people after London.” 

“‘Date.” Aliya furrows her brow. “This meaning go out to places and have food with someone?”

“I guess…”

“Then yes. I dating many people.” Aliya enjoys seeing Aly’s face turn a slight shade of green. 

“Oh. How many?”

“I think five - “

“I see.”

“ - or six.”

“Or six?” Aly’s attempt to be casual about this conversation is undermined by her higher-than-usual voice.

The Russian shrugs. “I not remember every one. They are all same to me.” There had been an almost continuous supply of men - and several women - who fell over themselves to wine and dine her. With the ones she didn’t immediately write off, Aliya tried seeing in them something that would cause her actual pain, even just a tiny bit, if one day she never heard from them again. Some grew on her as friends. None ever developed the capacity to truly hurt her. Not in the way Aly did.

“So you dated, but you never…?” 

The more tongue-tied Aly gets over asking whether Aliya had slept with anyone else, the more Aliya wants to grab her with the growing energy rising inside of her, to get it through her thick American head that when she left that damn scar on her, it became almost impossible to even  _want_  to be intimate with someone that wasn’t her. 

“No,” she says gravely, holding her emotion back. The pure relief on Aly’s face causes a fleeting smile to touch Aliya’s lips.

A more comfortable silence follows. Several waves break on the beach, causing layers of bubbly, white foam to spread out and disappear, before Aly wonders out loud: “What is Putin like?”

Taken aback, Aliya stares at her. “You want this being your second question?”

The girl nods. 

“Why?”

Aly imitates Aliya’s nonchalant shrug, grinning sheepishly. “You’re the only person I know who’s met him face to face. I’m just really curious to know what he’s like.”

Curling her lip in thought, Aliya takes a minute to turn over her memories. She had met Russia’s notorious president on several occasions, but each time only very briefly, and always just to shake his hand before receiving a shiny medal or expensive car keys from him. “Putin is like nice grandfather.”

“A nice grandfather?” The totally unconvinced look on Aly’s face makes the Russian laugh out loud.

“Da. Nice grandfather who give you nice things when you doing something he like.” Aliya goes quiet, her gaze all of a sudden somber. “And who go after you with  _politsiya_  if you doing something he not like.”

“Ah. Do people really love him over there?”

“Many people like him. He is doing many things they thinking is good. But same time, many people not remember to having anyone else as Russian leader. It is complicated.” Aliya glances curiously over at the American. “And your president? What he is like?”

“Obama?” Aly chuckles. “He’s pretty cool. And actually really funny. When we met him at the White House last time, he kept telling all these jokes. Mostly lame dad ones. Some of them were even better than mine.” 

“Aly, it is not hard to having jokes better than you.” A playful slap gets aimed at her, but Aliya catches it mid-air. She grins at the surprise on Aly’s face at being foiled by her lightning fast reflexes. 

“I think I liked it better when you didn’t know how to be mean in English,” Aly mutters darkly.

“Last question,” Aliya responds with a smirk.

But then… 

There’s only a few seconds of delay between them trading smiles, and both realizing their hands are still intertwined. 

Embarrassed, Aliya instantly releases Aly’s hand. As if anticipating her move, the American quickly tightens her grip, keeping their fingers locked together. It charges the atmosphere with a sudden, violent longing, and Aliya hears herself draw a sharp intake of breath. The wind, the waves upon the sand, the shrieks of joy from kids playing in the ocean - they all fade into an inconspicuous blur. With a pounding heart, Aliya senses Aly silently pleading with her to let this moment run its course.

_‘Ya tebya lyublyu.’_

Suddenly, everything becomes clear. Everything they had felt in every smile, in every stare, in every word spoken - it all could only have lead to this point. 

“Aliya...” 

The fierce desire threaded through the syllables of her name makes the air around them go terrifically still, like it might shatter into a thousand pieces if Aly so much as whispers her next words.

“Do you still love me?”

* * *

 

*cf. First Times, Chapter 3

**cf. First Times, Chapter 9

***cf. One of my [favorite ever Raistafina one shots by mustdefine](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/mustdefine/53889673932)


	11. Like This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas everyone! Yes, ST still lives and it’s crazy people in the fandom still read it. I have the ending almost set in my head, and will keep writing until it’s done. I’ve also gone back and re-written past chapters, to make it better. Thanks Jenkenlee wherever you are for kickstarting this. You can read her 'First Times' here on AO3 too.]
> 
> This chapter was written to The Kiss, by Mervyn Warren

 

“Seda, I’m going to kill you.”

“Alka - ”

“But after the all-around final. For Russia’s sake.”

“Aren’t you overreacting just a little?”

“ _Overreacting?_ What were you thinking?!”

…

“Well? Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“Fine. Kill me if you have to. But only after you tell me what happened first!”

“Unbelievable.“

“Did you two…? Well. You know.”

“I swear to God, Tutkhalyan - ”

“Something happened didn’t it? Didn’t it, Alka?”

“I’m going to count to three.”

“What?”

“Start running.”

“Can’t we just talk - “

“One.”

* * *

“The two of you are so adorable together. I can’t believe it actually worked!”

“You’re not even hiding the fact that you set us up.”

“Simone gets credit too. And why would we hide it? It was genius, if I say so myself.”

“Right.”

“Wait. Why that look? What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“You missed the first half of training, Als. That’s sacrilege for you. Spill.”

“Don’t you have other, more important things to worry about? Like, oh I don’t know, an Olympic beam final. Which you’re going to be amazing in, by the way.“

“I’m not letting you out of this apartment until you tell me everything.”

“Laurie, it’s like I told you - “

“Either tell me everything now, or I wake Simone up from her nap. And you know what she’s like when you come between her and nap time.”

“Okay. Okay!”

“Well?”

“It was the freaking Titanic.”

“Oh my god. Steamy, forbidden sex in an abandoned transportation vehicle?”

“No! I mean smash-into-iceberg, people-screaming-everywhere, all out Titanic  _disaster_.”

“But... I don’t understand. I thought she still loved you.”

* * *

“Do you still love me?”

The second thought racing through Aliya Mustafina’s mind is whether it’s possible to re-bottle the startled silence she had sent ricocheting into the air. Fear had frozen her at first. But then the silence… It loudly announced to the world how her heart still drummed to Raisman’s every breath. The girl need only ask, and it would crumple like paper in the palm of her hand.

“You can’t say it. But you do.” Aly sounds weak with relief. And dangerously hopeful. Her face slowly lights up, and she tightens her grip on Aliya’s hand. 

The Russian curses inwardly. Not even the musical whirring of a nearby icecream truck, nor the high octane shouts of a dozen excited kids clamoring after it, can mask her stunned muteness. The question she had hoped would never surface was now glaringly out in the open. Worse still, it demanded a response she wasn’t ready to give. Admit to the truth, then what? Would they really risk reopening wounds that were just beginning to heal?

Still tossing those dark thoughts around in her head, it takes awhile for Aliya to find her voice. “Asking me another thing, Raisman. Please,” she pleads quietly. To her dismay, Aly fixes her searing gaze even more intently on her. 

“You love me,” the girl murmurs, in a wondrous haze. “I see it. No, I feel it.” Aly’s words grow steadier, like she’s suddenly found clarity amidst an overwhelming deluge of emotions.

The midday sun blazes relentlessly down on them. But it’s not what’s causing the feverish wave Aliya feels engulfing her entire body. Her heartbeat, now a battering ram against her ribs, insists she let go of the stubborn, rational need to protect herself from what might hurt her - or be really, really good for her. 

Sensing the lowering of Aliya’s barriers, Aly leans forward, close enough that their brows almost touch. Gentle determination dances in her eyes, deep pools of amber that leave no doubt as to where this moment is headed. Those impossibly beautiful eyes, Aliya frets to herself, are going to be the end of her. They have always been.

The Russian isn’t sure if Aly actually spoke her name; just before their lips touch, it’s more like she breathes it, the way an artist breathes color onto a canvas of dreary greys, blacks and charcoals. 

It’s a slow, careful kiss at first - for about a heartbeat.

Then comes the surge of painfully, wonderfully sweet sensations. The delicious scent of her that wraps around Aliya, filling her lungs with each quickening breath. The affection with which her fingers trace the line of Aliya’s cheekbone. The way she pulls Aliya closer with an insistent, passionate longing. Soon enough, everything is swirling and lost in a wild sea of desperation. Soon enough, Aliya finds herself kissing Aly back with a ferocity that takes them both by surprise.

She has never wanted anyone or anything more. 

In a single kiss, Aly Raisman gives her something infinitely precious - a deep knowing that life is found in the melding together of our deepest desire with our greatest fear. But it takes from her, too. It takes her very breath, suspending her existence the way gravity suspends the planets in their orbit. It would take her sanity too, if this kiss, this feeling that she could chase the wind and catch it, were to ever end… 

And there was no doubt when the Games were over, it  _would_ end.

The dire thought jerks Aliya up short. She hastily pulls away from the kiss, lips swollen and head dizzy. Heart beating madly, Aliya abruptly averts her gaze towards the ocean, where the crest of a large wave is receding. Aly’s eyes widen in worry, but she says nothing. 

Another salty breeze whips past, grazing Aliya’s skin and eliciting a shiver. She draws her knees close to her chest, as if the action might contain the uncertainty now flooding through her.

If her breaking away had surprised Aly, it doesn’t show. After only a brief hesitation, the American reaches out to cup Aliya’s cheek, tenderly tilting her face to meet her gaze. When she speaks, her voice is soft, but strong. “I know you’re scared. I am too.”

The Russian’s face is grim. “Da. We should being scared. We should not doing this.” Even so, she closes her eyes to savor the warmth of Aly’s touch. She steels herself against the idea that it could ever amount to anything more than a stolen moment on a beach in Rio, far away from the reality waiting for them back at the Olympic Village.

“Being scared doesn’t stop us from training every day of our lives on equipment that could literally kill us,” Aly persists. “And it definitely doesn’t stop us from loving what we do. How is this is any different?” 

“Aly. You are knowing how.” With a look, Aliya signals the obvious flaw in the girl’s attempt to reason with her. Despite this, a corner of her mouth pulls up in a near smile.

Aly drops her hands in resigned defeat. “I can’t help it. You have me. I’m completely, totally, and utterly yours.”

Aliya’s stomach does a wild lurch. “What if someone else is more good for you?”

“There is no one else, Aliya.” 

“You cannot knowing that.”

“I do know. You’d think that after all these years…” The fierceness in Aly's voice fades, and she chokes up a little. “I’m not making the same mistake of letting you go again. You’re my one. Where else am I going to find a Russian gymnast who gets me like you do, who drives me crazy like you do?” Lowering her lashes, she adds quietly, “Sometimes, you say my name, and the next thing I know the whole world goes up in flames.”

Aliya’s fights such a rush of emotion that for a moment, she can’t speak. “Other gymnast can doing this for you,” she finally counters feebly. 

Aly draws back sharply, as if stung. A shadow of doubt flits across her face. “No. What are you talking about?”

Memories of her earlier exchange with Eythora leap to the front of Aliya’s mind. The girl’s bold pursuit of Aly had left an indelible, if unpleasant, impression on her. It wasn’t easily forgotten. “Thorsdottir.” Then, as if Aly looks confused because she doesn’t recognize the name, rather than because she doesn’t understand why Aliya is even bringing her up, the Russian hurriedly clarifies, “Eythora Thorsdottir. She say she will fighting for you.”

The astonishment on Aly's face intermingles with a flash of hurt.

Perhaps Aliya mentions it because some part of her believes the unselfish thing to do is help open Aly’s mind to the possibility of finding happiness with someone else. Or perhaps she secretly wanted to test how Aly would react. Much as Aliya hates to admit it, the Dutch girl was probably capable of uprooting to go study at an American college if it meant being closer to Aly. Her English was more than good enough. It wasn't uncommon for western Europeans to spend their collegiate years in the States.

She had options that weren’t open to Aliya.

“You’re not making any sense,” Aly says shakily. “Did she say something to you?” But before Aliya can respond, Aly bites her lower lip, and shakes her head as if to silence her. “No. Don’t answer that. I don’t want to talk about her. No one else matters here. No one, except you and me.” She looks resolutely out at the sparkling blue-green ocean, as if avoiding eye contact will make the Russian drop the matter.

Aliya directs a troubled stare at her. “We cannot being more than friends, Aly.”

“Friends?” A mix of consternation and disbelief comes through in the raised inflection of the girl's response. “We can never be just friends. I know that. You know that.”

“Why not?” Aliya raises her own voice to match Aly’s.

“You can’t. Not with someone you’ve never stopped being in love with. And who you know loves you just as much, even if they can’t say it.” Aly folds her arms stubbornly, daring Aliya to find fault with her statement.

Frustration flares in the Russian. “It is you who saying we are friends, Raisman!”

“I know. At the time, I thought it made sense, that we could still be in each other’s lives without being... more.” Aly's shoulders slump. Her eyes glisten with sorrow. “But look at us, Aliya. We’re terrible at being friends.”

Aliya resists the temptation to shoot back that  _one of them_  is terrible at it, even though deep down she knows Aly is right. The day she can look at Aly and not want her would never dawn, not in a million years. Still, didn't they owe it to their sanity to at least pretend to try? “What we are now, if not this?” she demands, her voice slightly strained.

To her surprise, Aly snatches Aliya's hand from her lap, bringing it swiftly to her chest. “We’re  _this,_ ” she determines fiercely. "This... this  _thing_  that lets us feel what the other person is feeling, like we’re one and the same, but not.” Aliya’s heart does a violent flip as Aly presses her hand emphatically, willing her to feel the full import of her words. “Whatever this is, that makes chocolate taste like so much more than just cocoa butter, and milk, and way too much sugar. Whatever it is that makes me smile like an idiot every time I hear a Russian song. That makes waking up every goddamn day actually  _matter_.”

They lock eyes, and for a heart-rending instant, Aliya wants to surrender herself to the glaring truth that they had always been, and could only ever be, absolutely mad about each other. That there was no possibility of them ever being apart again. And yet... “This, like we are four years ago?” The Russian instantly regrets the accusatory tone that bleeds into her retort. She registers the hurt that flickers across the American’s face. She feels a stab of anguish as Aly lets her hand drop.

“Aly," Aliya quickly stammers, "I not meaning…” As she struggles to unbound the tight knot of emotions holed up in her chest, Aliya wonders for the hundredth time why things have to be so complicated. And why the English language has to be so agonizingly foreign. “I only mean we have doing the same before. And we know how it will be ending,” she explains, brokenly and not very well.

Aly’s eyes darken as Aliya’s words eventually sink in. Another silence that seems to drag on for an eternity follows. It fills Aliya with guilt. She hadn’t meant to resurrect past ghosts. She really had forgiven Aly for everything - if indeed there had been anything to forgive.

At last, the girl offers a faint smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Of course. You’re right. What was I thinking?” The defeat in her voice and posture cut Aliya to her core. Even though Aly barely moves a muscle, Aliya unmistakably senses her retreat. She fights the urge to throw her arms around Aly again to keep her from slipping away.

“Aly. You and me - ”

Aly cuts her off quietly. “No, I know. You, in Russia. Me, in the United States. It didn’t work then, and it won’t work now.” 

Recognizing the raising of a wall when she sees one, Aliya shuts her mouth. A gloominess descends on them both at an alarming speed.

“We should probably be getting back, anyway.” The forced easiness in that statement inflicts a twinge of sadness on Aliya’s heart. She watches silently as Aly gathers up her clothes, methodically rolling them up so they fit snugly into her small backpack. The girl lifts her towel up by the corners, flapping it several times in the wind to dust off the sand. Then she wraps it around her waist, before checking the time on her phone. “The bus will be there in about ten minutes. We should go now.” 

Aliya glumly nods her agreement. She begins to slip her red dress down over her head. 

“Aliya?”

The Russian's pulse quickens. She looks up, heart in her throat. “Da?”

“Maybe you should try being nicer to the driver this time. So he’s not so scared and shaken up.” Aliya catches the half-hearted grin Aly throws at her. “I actually want to make it back to the all-around final in one piece,” the girl jokes, not even trying to land it with any sort of conviction.

Oh. A proper retort eludes Aliya, so she just answers with her own weak grin. “I try.”

The American extends one last lingering look, before she turns to start walking.

A sudden urgency rises inside Aliya's chest. _Ya tebya lyublyu, Aly. Stay here on this beach with me. Don't go. Don't you ever leave me again._

“Aly. Wait.”

Aly spins promptly back around to face Aliya. Her expression makes it plain that she’s afraid to hope, but wants more than anything for Aliya to give her a reason to. Aliya hesitates. _If only things were different_ , she thinks mournfully. _If only you and I weren't born in places so far apart. But then, you wouldn't be who you are, and I wouldn't be who I am..._

“I - I am sorry,” Aliya manages falteringly. She sees disappointment etch itself into the taut lines around Aly’s face. ' _Sorry',_  Aliya rages at herself.What an utterly useless phrase that articulates exactly none of the powerful, convoluted, soul-shaking emotion she feels for this girl.

“I’m sorry too,” Aly says after awhile, with the sadness of someone who’s finally resigned themselves to the end of the road. She tries to brush it off with a grim chuckle. “Better to have loved and lost, right?”

Where had Aliya heard those words before? As she watches Aly trudge slowly up the sand towards the busy avenue, she remembers: in Yegoryevsk, in the warmth of her family living room.

It was something her grandmother always used to say to her, when she was still an impressionable, impulsive child.  _‘Lucse ljubit i poterjat, cem sovsem ne ljubit,’_ she would whisper comfortingly, as she held a distraught ten-year-old Aliya in her slender arms the day a boy she had a silly crush on moved to St. Petersburg with his diplomat mother.

_Better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all._

For the first time in her life, Aliya experiences what it’s like to doubt the timeless wisdom of her beloved babushka.

* * *

 _We drifted apart_  
_clouds on different winds_  
_long we fought to hold_  
_our misty grips_  
_but in the end we were again_  
_clouds on different winds._

 _-_ Atticus


End file.
